


Consequences of Redemption

by bobbirose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Camping, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Identity Issues, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, On the Run, Redeemed Draco, Romance, i mean mostly, it's literally just the two of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 120,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbirose/pseuds/bobbirose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Draco makes an impromptu decision to rescue Harry Potter from Malfoy Manor, the two find themselves completely alone and facing the looming climax of the war against Voldemort. Harry must start from the beginning with Draco--and starting over has more consequences than either of them anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to tumblr user kitsune-geijutsu for reading through :)
> 
> Here we go...

“Well, Draco?”

Lucius Malfoy’s voice was high, breathy and excited, directly above Harry. It was almost indecent, the amount of anticipation smothering the elder Malfoy’s tone.

Harry’s heart was sinking fast, his stomach already bottomed out and blood already gone cold.

His vision was distorted, his glasses knocked askew by Hermione’s spell, but he was himself. He was certain Draco would recognize him, but he forced himself not to look at Draco’s face, not watch the blond approach them slowly. He started forming an escape plan, maybe something involving blowing out the floor, his brain not even listening to Draco’s triumphant recognition.

But Draco didn’t speak. There was no relishing voice ringing out, proud and certain and smug. There was no “yes, that’s Potter,” that followed. Just a tense silence, everyone holding their breath and focusing on Draco.

“Is it? Is it Harry Potter?” Lucius prompted, and Draco snapped out of his silence.

“I can’t—“ he began, and Harry heard Hermione’s breath catch behind him. “I can’t be sure,” he finished, voice shaking and breaking on the last word.

“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!” Lucius grabbed his son’s arm and steered him towards Harry, who looked up. Draco’s translucent gray eyes latched onto his and Harry’s heart clenched as he saw the unmistakable light of recognition in Draco’s eyes, before it was masked by fear and dread. No doubt Draco knew who was kneeling in front of him, but as he stared, the only thing he saw was absolute panic in Draco’s face.

* * *

There was silence then, from both the cellar and upstairs, broken only by the footsteps echoing on the ceiling ahead, marking Wormtail’s advance.

“We’re going to have to try and tackle him,” Harry whispered to Ron, and the latter nodded, his gaze set firmly at the door in front of him.

“Stand back,” came Wormtail’s voice, and Harry sucked in a breath.

He opened the door, and Harry and Ron were on him in a flash.

He hit the floor with a decisive thud, and Harry clamped a hand down on his mouth while his other hand struggled to wrestle Wormtail’s wand from his sweaty grip. The enchanted silver hand reached up and found Harry’s throat, closing tightly and Harry gasped and sputtered.

“What is it, Wormtail?” Lucius called.

“Nothing!” Ron improvised, imitating Wormtail. “All fine!”

“You’re going to kill me?” Harry choked. “You owe me!”

Wormtail looked stricken, but it was nothing compared to the look he had when the silver fingers slackened, making Harry cough and gasp, and started moving towards his own throat.

Ron bounded ahead, but turned back to motion Harry furiously forward.

Harry was busy trying to pry the fingers off of Wormtail’s windpipe, as the beady eyes beneath him pleaded for help. Ron raced back and tried to help, even pulling out his wand, but a dreadful scream overhead from Hermione caused them to abandon their task, Ron bounding ahead of Harry as Wormtail’s body collapsed behind him.

They ran along the hallway, as carefully and quietly as possible, and peeked into the doorway. Ron whimpered at the sight of Hermione, lying in the middle of the room, motionless and pale.

“And I think,” Bellatrix was saying, her eyes wide in delight as she swooped around to face Hermione, “we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her.”

“NO!”

Ron had practically roared as he burst into the room, Harry right behind him. Bellatrix whirled around, but Ron Disarmed her before she had a chance to say a single syllable. Harry ran and caught her wand, the rest of the room just now getting full comprehension of what was happening. Lucius Malfoy fired a Stunning Spell at Harry, who ducked and shot one back, almost hitting him in the chest.

Spells were being fired from every wand now except from Draco, who Harry just barely noticed was standing frozen in the middle, looking like his mind was reeling.

Harry decided against Stunning him, out of what he supposed was pure fairness, when a demanding shriek rang through the room.

“STOP OR SHE DIES!”

Everyone froze and whipped around to face Bellatrix, who was supporting an unconscious Hermione by her hair and arm, a small silver dagger held at her throat.

“Drop your wands,” she whispered. “Drop them, or we’ll see exactly how filthy her blood is!”

Harry was still, mind going momentarily slow. For one ludicrous moment, he imagined he was in one of the big standoff scenes in every Muggle action film, lowering his wand as he glanced at Ron, who hadn’t moved.

“I said, _drop them!_ ” she screeched, pressing her blade a little farther into Hermione’s throat until a few beads of blood appeared at the tip.

“Alright!” Ron yelled, his wand immediately falling from his hand. Harry followed suit, raising his hands instinctively instead.

“Good!” she exclaimed breathlessly, seeming to relax a bit as the control swung back into her favor. “Draco, pick them up! The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Harry felt his scar explode into sharp pain, making him stagger backwards from the blinding sensation.

He saw stormy seas, and someone rapidly approaching a shoreline. He was coming.

His vision cleared as Bellatrix turned to Draco, who hadn’t moved, despite her earlier demand.

“Draco,” she said sharply, “Pick their wands up!”

Draco’s head snapped up to her as if she had screamed at him, and gave a short nod.

Harry watched him, his eyes flickering between helplessness and stony anger. Draco glanced at something beyond Harry and his steps faltered, but no one but Harry seemed to notice.

He stopped in front of Harry and held his gaze for a second, and Harry saw some sort of resolve form, clouding his fear, and perhaps his better judgment.

“Hurry up, boy!” Bellatrix snapped, and Draco bent down and picked up her wand.

And Harry swore he must be hallucinating.

For there was no way that _Draco Malfoy_ just winked at him.

Draco spun around, holding Bellatrix’s wand aloft.

“STUPEFY!” he screamed, and Bellatrix’s shout of shock was cut short by the red jet of light from Draco as it hit her in the stomach.

“Weasley—Granger—go!” he shouted, firing another Stunning spell at a wildly confused but still aggressive Greyback.

Narcissa screamed as she understood what was happening, holding out her hands as Lucius lunged at Draco and Harry.

Harry had a fleeting vision of Ron running towards the collapsed Hermione and— _Dobby_ —before he turned his head to see Draco reach towards him.

Harry dimly registered Draco grabbing Harry’s arm before his already unsteady breath was sucked from him, turning the world black and blurry.

 _Apparation_ , he thought, and tried to scream, or struggle, but Draco’s grip was desperate and vice-like on Harry’s arm, and Harry found himself completely immobilized.

In a split second, his feet touched ground and he was thrown off of his feet, slamming into the grass and dirt that had materialized beneath him. He barely noticed the chill of the wind on his face or the sound of waves crashing somewhere behind him, but he did notice the other erratic breath pattern beside him, and he whipped his head around to find a pale and shaking Draco Malfoy getting unsteadily to his feet.

“Malfoy—“ Harry began, but he was completely unsure of what to demand.

“I’m not taking you back so you can die rescuing your friends,” Draco said defiantly, the decisiveness of his voice in heavy contrast to the look of shock on his face.

“You rescued me,” Harry realized fully, his eyes widening in surprise and confusion.

“I—yeah,” Draco answered, exhaling and running a hand through his hair. He glanced at Harry and pulled out his wand, and Harry jerked back instinctively.

“You’ve still got some of that Stinging Jinx on you,” Draco explained, and muttered “ _Finite incantatem”_ to himself. Harry felt the faint stinging in his face vanish completely, and raised a tentative hand to feel his features, finding them restored to normal.

“Right,” Harry said, standing up and beginning to pace back and forth, Draco watching him warily. “I’m going back. Ron and Hermione,” he said, by way of explanation, and turned to Draco.

“You—you can come with me,” he continued to ramble, “You can say it was—an accident or something—“

“Potter, it was clear what I was doing! I was helping you escape! Everyone saw that!” Draco protested, his eyes going wide with fear again.

“Ron and Hermione—“

“—Are fine,” Draco interjected, desperate. “I Stunned Aunt Bellatrix, Weasley was running for Granger when I—when we—Disapparated. Dobby was right behind us, I saw him when I went to get your wand. This wasn’t as impromptu as you think,” he finished, and Harry blinked.

“You planned this?” Harry asked, disbelieving. Draco hesitates.

“Not bad for 30 seconds, is it?”

“Malf—Draco,” Harry said slowly, and Draco blinked at the use of his first name. “You have… _no idea_ what you’ve done.”

“Don’t think so, _Potter_?” Draco snapped. “You think I betray my family and the Dark Lord every other Tuesday? Do I look like a risk taker to you?”

“It’s just…” Harry began, feeling faintly nauseous over the enormity of what had just happened. “You’re on the run now, Draco. You’re probably wanted dead, you’re probably being _looked for_ , do you even know anything—“

“I KNOW!” Draco roared, and Harry fell silent. “You were going to die,” Draco chokes out finally, and Harry stares at him in amazement.

“I thought that was what you wanted,” Harry said.

“It was never what I wanted,” Draco shot back, glaring at Harry. “I thought it was, but I—I never really _thought_ about it until...well, all of a sudden I’m a Death Eater and I have to—to do these things. And I never wanted it. I don’t want it.”

Harry was stunned into silence, and Draco didn’t seem to notice. He watched as the blond ran a shaky hand through his hair, the strands coming away from their strict hairstyle to fall in front of Draco’s eyes.

The waves crashing somewhere around them were too loud in Harry’s ears as he stared, trying to think of something to say.

“Well, at least when you dishonor your entire family tree you go all out,” he said finally, laughing weakly. Draco gaped at him.

Harry then realized that he probably should proceed to be more tactful during Draco’s identity crisis, and was about to stammer out an apology when Draco _laughed_. He laughed until he almost fell over, gasping out breaths as Harry stared at him in alarm, wondering if Draco had gone insane.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Draco breathed when he could speak again, a faint grin still on his face. “I just rescued Harry Potter. _Fuck_.”

“Well, thank you,” Harry finally said, a bit thickly. Draco snorted in response.

“You’re welcome, Potty.”

Harry turned to face the shoreline, squinting his eyes in the bright sunlight that suddenly faced him. “Where are we?”

“France,” Draco answered casually, and Harry raised his eyebrows at him. “I’m not exactly sure what city. I haven’t been here in…12 years, give or take.”

“What’s here?”

“Nothing now,” Draco said, marching up the edge of the grassy cliff. “Our family villa was torn down many years ago. It was the first place I thought of.”

“We should leave,” Harry said quickly.

Draco looked around at him, his mouth open as if he were going to protest, but Harry cut him off.

“This seems like a place they’d expect you to go. We can’t be here.” Harry said firmly, and Draco nodded, resigned.

Harry was again struck with a strange desire to say something, words of comfort or solidarity, but he pushed it down and instead wordlessly walked up to Draco, grabbed his wrist and Disapparated.

 

It was faintly raining when they landed on the wet shores of another beach, and Draco instinctively brought his hands up to shield his hair from the moisture.

The sky was dark with angry storm clouds, but the sea next to them was calm in contrast, the rolling gray waves crashing smoothly onto the shore.

The sand dunes above led up to a sand plateau that stretched on interrupted until the cottage in the middle of it, and Draco assumed automatically that this is where Harry meant to end up.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Shell Cottage,” Harry answered, seemingly looking around for someone to come and help. “Bill and Fleur Weasley live here, it’s where I told Dobby to take everyone.”

Draco nodded, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety forming somewhere between his lungs and followed Harry as they both made their way towards the cottage. Before they had even crossed to the sand dunes, however, a tall blonde figure in a simple blue dress burst out of the cottage and started running towards them, and Harry raised his arms in greeting.

“’ARRY!” The woman nearly screamed in relief, running somehow incredibly elegantly on the wet sand and embracing Harry.

Up close, Draco immediately recognized her as Fleur Delacour, and would be even more stunned by her beauty now than he was in fourth year if it weren’t for the wave of panic he could feel rising up in him again as she turned her icy blue gaze onto him.

“Draco Malfoy?” she asked, even though he could tell she knew who he was.

Draco nodded, unsure of what to say, but Harry cut into whatever reply he was formulating.

“He got me out of the Manor,” he explained, shooting Draco a look that seemed like he still didn't dare to believe his own declaration.

“’e rescued you?” she asked Harry, staring shamelessly at Draco, her voice a whisper and her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Yeah, that’s about where I am right now.” Harry replied, a rueful smile on his face. Draco suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

“Well, come inside, quickly! We ‘ave much to discuss. Bill is with ‘Ermione upstairs…I think you should see ‘er.”

Draco glanced at Harry, who had momentarily stilled, and saw his face filled with worry.

“She’ll be okay,” he whispered before he could think, and Harry’s head snapped up to look at him, traces of surprise on his face.

“I hope so,” he replied blankly after a moment, and they both resolved to follow Fleur back to the house in silence.

Once they were inside, Draco had a fleeting vision of a modern yet cozy beach house interior before both Harry and Draco found themselves pressed up against the wall on opposite sides of the doorframe.

Draco blinked in surprise, and then tensed when he found his face only inches from the oldest Weasley, his shoulder-length red hair falling to his shoulders and hanging around his face like a curtain and giving Draco the distinct smell of sea salt and shampoo. The scar that he had attained last year stuck out on his face as his teeth were bared, and Draco’s heart pumped cold blood into his veins as he stared back at the animalistic expression.

He was aware of the point of a wand pressing into his ribcage, and he squeezed his eyes shut and barely held back a whimper as he realized no one was stopping him.

His wand was yanked out of his hand and he let it be taken, twisting his head around to see Harry, who was being pinned in place by a wildly less insistent Kingsley.

“What,” boomed Kingsley, “was the shape and flavor of your 17th birthday cake?”

Draco blinked, completely thrown and unsure if he’d heard correctly.

Fleur made an indignant sound behind them. “Not zis again,” she fumed. “It’s ‘Arry!”

“Fleur, it’s okay,” Harry said, noticeably calm. “It was…chocolate, wasn’t it? And in the shape of a Snitch.”

Kingsley sighed with relief and backed off, nodding tersely at Bill.

Bill turned back to Draco, and he crouched back into the wall as best he could, unable to tear his eyes away from Bill’s dangerous gaze.

But after a second or two, Bill’s eyes clouded with frustration and confusion and he stepped back, and Draco almost sagged with relief.

“I can’t think of anything,” Bill said, pursing his lips.

“Let me,” Harry interjected quickly. Kingsley nodded and handed him back his wand. Harry took it, but did not point it at Draco.

“Last year,” He began, staring straight at Draco, “I accidentally—er, cornered you in the bathroom. You were…upset.”

Draco closed his eyes and nodded. “I remember.”

“Do you remember the spell I used on you?”

Draco’s eyes flew open. “Yes,” he responded hesitantly.

Bill, Fleur and Kingsley were all looking strangely at Harry, silent and confused.

“What was it?”

Draco looked around at them all before answering quietly, almost feeling the scars on his chest sting.

“S-Sectumsempra.”

Fleur’s brow furrowed, but Bill and Kingsley’s eyes widened in shock and recognition.

“We’ve all done bad things without knowing it,” Harry said evenly, shrugging.

 _Just like me_ , Draco finished in his head, but Harry left any mention of him unsaid. The others, however, stared at Draco like Harry _had_ said his name, their expressions ranging from caution to hesitant acceptance.

“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked finally, and Draco noticed the break in his voice with a pang in his own chest.

Fleur strode over to Harry, her hair fluttering over her shoulders and down her back, and laid a comforting hand on Harry’s arm.

“She’ll be okay,” Bill said slowly, unknowingly echoing Draco’s words from earlier. This time said, however, they were tainted with the expectation of further bad news instead of whatever comfort Draco’s whisper could be laced with.

“But?” Harry interjected, jaw set and eyes blazing. Draco flinched as he recognized the stare all too well, from the countless times it had been fixed on him.

“But,” Bill continued, looking evermore weary, “she hasn’t woken up. She—we don’t think—sometimes this happens in Muggles and Muggleborns when they’ve been tortured by magic. Their brain sort of—sort of fails. Their kind hasn’t had as long to…acclimate to the possibility of such conditions.”

“She…she’s in a coma?” Harry whispered, his jaw now slack and eyes blown wide with horror.

Bill dropped his gaze.

“Of sorts,” Kingsley allowed, and even though his eyes were kind and supportive, his voice and manner hadn’t lost that professionally protective air that seemed to be infused within the man. “Magical comatose states can differ greatly from Muggle ones. We can’t know for sure until we get a Healer.”

“SO DO THAT!” Harry roared, making Draco jump backwards.

“Harry, it’s not that simple!” Bill countered. “She is technically wanted on _criminal charges_ at the Ministry! We can’t just pop her down to Saint Mungos. We have to get a Healer that’s…that’s like us. And I don’t know how long that will take.”

Harry let out a long, slow breath, head bowed and shoulders suddenly slumped.

Draco realized with a shock that it was the first time he’d ever seen the great Harry Potter look defeated.

“Can…can I see her?”

 

Harry followed Bill up the stairs, barely remembering Draco trailing noiselessly behind him.

Bill stopped at the top, and gestured to a white wooden door left of the banister. Harry nodded and marched on, Draco hurrying to catch up.

He pushed open the already cracked door, and a part of him almost relaxed at the sight in front of him.

Hermione was gently lying under white linens with a blue calico print, cleaned and soft and dressed in white pajamas that were certainly Fleur’s. Her curls were spread almost artfully on the pillow beneath her, and her face was a painted picture of peaceful sleep.

Ron sat in a chair, obviously pulled up for him, beside the edge of the bed. His slightly shaking fingers lay hesitantly on Hermione’s still ones, his other hand gingerly touching the ends of her hair.

He looked up when he heard the door creak, and his somber and worried expression gave way to surprise and relief as he shot up, his arms still on the bed.

“Harry! You—how?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer any question Ron might have, but before he could get a word out, he saw Ron’s expression turn horrified and angry, his sights set on someone behind—

_Malfoy! Draco! Shit._

Harry stepped decisively in front of the blond that had slid into the room behind him, cutting off any immediate damage Ron could do.

Ron’s face went from fuming to confused, his brow furrowed but his lips still curled in disgust. Not that Harry would ever tell him, but it wasn’t a very attractive look on him.

Harry could almost hear the scathing “ _don’t hurt yourself, Weasel,”_ from Malfoy, and he braced for whatever was coming.

“He’s going to hit me,” came the response instead.

Harry turned around to find a seemingly nonchalant Draco leaning against the wall, barely inside the room.

“No, he’s not,” Harry responded, not believing himself as he said it.

“Actually, Harry,” Ron’s voice came from the other side of the room, sounding far too calm for his voice to be laced with such venom. “I think I might just kill him.”

Harry whirled around again, expecting to stop a stampeding Ron Weasley from bashing Draco’s head in, but instead found him quite stationary, looking at Draco like his mother’s killer just asked to have lunch.

“Ron,” Harry began, cautiously, and eventually Ron’s eyes left Draco, settling on Harry with a slightly less murderous expression. “You—no one’s going to hurt him.”

Ron’s eyes widened as suddenly as if he’d been slapped, the betrayal he felt almost pouring out of his irises as they darkened to a deep navy blue.

“He just stood there, Harry.” Ron stated in that same deadly voice, and Harry flinched. “Just _stood there_ , while Hermione—“ his voice caught, and he stopped talking, shaking his head once.

“Ron,” Harry tried, a bit desperately, knowing he was still convincing himself, “he rescued me. I wouldn’t have gotten to Dobby in time, Draco knew that.”

“HE CAME A BIT LATE, DIDN’T HE?” Ron yelled, gesturing furiously to Hermione, and Harry felt another pang in his chest as he looked at her unconscious form.

“Ron—“

“I bet he waited until he was down one _Mudblood_ ,” he spat, throwing his words at Draco as if they were knives. Harry could practically see them embedding themselves in his skull.

“WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO, WEASLEY?”

“SOMETHING!” Ron roared, and kicked the bedframe.

“I couldn’t,” Malfoy shot back defensively, and Ron scoffed. “I couldn’t! I wouldn’t have known where to go, what to— _do_ —and I couldn’t get to her. It wasn't—I couldn’t do anything.”

Ron appeared not to hear him, but he also wasn’t saying anything.

“Weasley…I’m sorry.” Draco added quietly, sounding defeated.

A peculiar feeling washed over Harry at this. He blinked at Draco, recognizing the second expression of gentle sincerity he’d ever heard from the boy. From any Slytherin, even—save perhaps Slughorn. The words were not spoken for careful manipulation, as Harry had heard continuously pour from the mouth of Tom Riddle, chosen specifically to hone in and reward whatever his victim desired to hear.

No, Draco spoke again with truth, remorse and a general ache that suddenly, Harry found himself peculiarly but irrevocably wanting to ease.

 _Ever the hero,_ he thought bitterly, internally shaking himself for a minute.

Ron, too, was looking at Draco with an expression of incredulity, and Harry felt it was his turn to step in.

“Ron,” he tried for the fourth time, and this time Ron let him continue. “We need to…accept him right now. He helped us all.”

Ron looked at them both for a couple seconds longer, and then blew a long breath out.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Alright.”

Draco was staring at Harry when Harry looked back at him, and when he met the slightly amazed gaze of grey-eyed boy standing behind him, he looked away quickly, again quenching the sudden swell of protectiveness he felt.

Ron made a noise in the back of his throat and turned back to Hermione, sitting down in his chair.

“What happens now?” he asked in a small voice.

“I don’t know,” Harry answered honestly, and ignored Draco’s raised eyebrows.

“You don’t know?” Draco repeated, and Harry sighed.

“I didn’t exactly count on one of us being rendered comatose,” he snapped, before realizing that wow, he probably should have.

“I bet Hermione did,” Ron commented, a bit mournfully, stroking her hair again.

Harry smiled sadly. “Bet so.”

They all lapsed into silence, and Harry could still feel Draco’s eyes on him.

“Harry,” Ron said suddenly, and Harry looked at him expectantly. “You’ve got to go on.”

Harry blinked at him. “What?”

Ron swallowed. “I’m not leaving her.”

It took him a few seconds, but Harry grasped his meaning suddenly, and with the force of a dizzying punch to the gut.

Ron would be right at the spot he was at then for however long it took. It wasn’t a choice to him—he could not go with Harry.

“We’ll wait,” he said a bit desperately, knowing whatever accommodating plan he was forming was ridiculous. “Until she gets better—the Healer will come in—“

“Potter,” Draco said, evidently too shocked to remember to call him Harry. “That can’t happen.”

“Malfoy’s right,” Ron admitted, shooting a glare at Draco. “You know there’s not time.”

Harry stepped backwards, mind whirling. He felt sick, a cold fear settling in his stomach and he was suddenly back at the end of sixth year, after Dumbledore’s funeral. He was back arguing with Ron and Hermione, back insisting his task was for him and him alone. Back loving them so much for promising to come with him. Loving so much the feeling of togetherness.

Now, the thought of being alone, well and truly alone, stuck out in his mind like a neon sign, his eyes hurting from the intensity of it. He had intended to go alone originally, and tried to save his friends the pain of what was coming, but suddenly the idea of honest singularity hurt more than he was willing to admit.

“…you’ve got to take the bag too,” Ron was saying. Harry forced his attention back onto him. “She’s got everything in there.”

Harry nodded numbly.

“Harry—“ Draco spoke quietly, a note of trepidation in his voice.

Harry’s eyes flitted to him and absently tried to decipher his expression.

Draco opened his mouth to continue, but looked like he was unsure how to voice anything. He just stared at Harry, and Harry stared back, and Ron stared at Hermione.

Harry thought about Draco as he looked at him, and thought for the first time what was next for him. Would he be found? Would he be hidden? Would he fight? Would he protected?

And this last was not a mere curiosity, but a sudden all-encompassing worry that forced loneliness from his mind and that Harry suspected had a bit too much to do with the utterly lost look in Draco’s eyes.

They all jumped at the sound of the door opening beside them, and Fleur’s sympathetic face appeared.

“’Arry, dear—and Draco too—you are more zan welcome to stay ze night. And as long as you’d like. You two will ‘ave to share a room—Luna and Dean ‘ave to do ze same. ‘ere are your zings—zey were left downstairs.” She smiled ruefully again and handed Harry one lone rucksack. Harry suddenly remembered that Draco had brought nothing—couldn't have brought a single thing. Just his wand.

He nodded, not voicing any of this out loud, and motioned for Draco to follow him.

The two boys walked on in silence to the only other empty room in the cottage.

“Harry—“ Draco tried again, but stopped short with a sudden choking sound. Harry turned, alarmed.

“Draco?”

Draco’s mouth was open in a silent _O,_ his eyes wide from shock, before he fell to his knees.

Then he started screaming.

“DRACO!” Harry yelled, dropping to his knees next to the writhing boy on the ground, who was now clutching his left forearm amongst screams of pain.

Before Harry could even comprehend what was happening, the entire cottage was shook by what seemed to be a massive explosion outside. Yells and screams sounded from downstairs, and there was immediately a pair of footsteps on the stairs.

“It’s— _shit!_ ” Draco gasped, as another hoarse scream was ripped from his throat. “It’s—the Mark!”

Harry was grasping his shoulders helplessly, looking wildly around for any clue as to what the _hell_ was going on.

Ron and Kingsley both suddenly bounded into view just as Draco arched up with a scream one more time before gasping and slumping to the ground, conscious but temporarily unaware.

“Harry—GO! Leave! Now!” Ron yelled, grasping Harry’s arm and yanking him up. “We’ll be safe—go!” He thrust Hermione’s purse into Harry’s hands, looking at him firmly with panic-stricken eyes before bounding away again.

“STUPEFY!” Bill Weasley’s voice sounded from downstairs, followed by a cackle of unfamiliar and sinister laughter.

“ _Sectumsempra_!” came a suddenly shrill scream that Harry was sure belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange.

Pure panic must have woken Draco up, for he was now scrambling to his feet, assisted by Kingsley, who shoved Harry’s knapsack back into his hands.

“Harry, you _must leave._ ” He demanded, in a voice that was not to be argued with.

Harry did anyway.

“I can’t leave!” he shouted.

“Yes you can!”

“Harry—“ Draco tugged on his arm, before gasping in pain again.

After sending him a fear-filled glance, Harry looked directly into Kingsley’s eyes.

“If they are hurt,” he said, voice low and firm. “There will be _hell_. Majorca, Spain.”

Kingsley blinked, momentarily startled, before his face settled into his usual mask. He nodded.

“Good luck.”

Without thinking, Harry turned and grabbed both of Draco’s hands so that they were facing each other. He had a split-second vision of that same look of amazement he had seen earlier before they were pulled into a crushing darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So! That was a good start to all of this...mayhem...
> 
> I'll have more notes at the end so if you want clarification, then...you know. Read on.
> 
> Enjoy!

The heat was oppressing, the sudden light blinding as Harry and Draco landed in yet more sand.

It was the fluffy kind, though—the white kind, the dry kind—the kind you see on postcards. Which was more or less exactly what Harry was picturing. He could literally hear the calls of seagulls, and sounds of awful beach music playing somewhere far off. He staggered to his feet, and was relieved to see that he and a heavily winded Draco were alone and seemed to have arrived unnoticed.

He focused on the picturesque shoreline almost immediately to their left. It was such a juxtaposition, he thought: the rolling waves seemingly designed for peace of mind were in direct contrast with the still breathless Draco Malfoy behind him, the fighting they were surrounded by not a minute earlier and the part of Harry screaming at him to go back.

And of course, he found himself quite literally alone on an island with the one person he’d never thought he’d be alone on an island with.

“Got a penchant for beaches, Potter?” said person lightly taunted, wincing in pain a bit as he picked himself off of the ground.

“You started it,” Harry replied absently, walking over to Draco and looking him over. “You’re okay?”

Draco sighed. “I am now.”

“Care to explain what the hell just happened?”

Draco cast his gaze around before answering, and found two standard-issue beach chairs outside of the blessedly empty private bungalow they had arrived in front of. He plopped down into one with another sigh, burying his head in his hands. Harry noticed that his demeanor had none of the theatrics left, none of the prideful arrogance and intolerance of others he had always carried around with him at school. Harry realized he hadn’t truly seen that side of Draco since fifth year.

He watched as the Slytherin unbuttoned his left cuff, rolling it slowly up his pale arm. Harry braced himself for the sight of the Mark, but had to stifle a gasp at what he actually saw in its place.

Draco let out a breath at the sight of it, wincing and turning his face away.

There—in the relative shape of what used to be the Dark Mark—stretched an angry red burn, the black ink gone but its memory etched in stretched skin and probable permanent scarring.

“Does it hurt?” Harry asked anxiously, coming around to sit in the chair beside Draco.

Draco shrugged. “Not as bad.”

Harry stared at it for another second before asking. “What—how did this happen?”

Draco sighed again, collecting his breath for what Harry supposed was going to be a long explanation.

“The Dark Mark,” he began, “is a nasty bit of complex Dark Magic. There is, to Wizarding knowledge, only one Wizard to ever have done, or is even _capable_ of doing something like this, and he gave it to me himself.”

Harry watched as Draco closed his eyes, breathing deeply once more.

“When a new member takes the Mark, three things happen simultaneously. One, that member is equipped with the ability to summon the Dark Lo—to summon _him_ , whenever and wherever they are. He, of course, may choose to ignore the request, or honor it. It’s not so much of a summons as it is…a notification. Two, that person is now able to be summoned directly from the D—from him. It’s not….it’s not easily ignored. Incredibly hard to resist, to the point of intense physical pain.”

“Is that what happened?” Harry asked, nodding at the burn. Draco grimaced.

“No.”

“Oh…”

“What happened is the third thing that happens when someone is branded. It's…it’s a sort of locator.”

Harry’s eyes snapped up to Draco’s. “A _what?!_ ”

“It’s—relax, it’s okay—it can only be used once. And once it is used…” Draco glanced down at his arm, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid.

“But…why make it that drastic? Why not just put in a nice tame location spell?” Harry asked, feeling the sting of his limited magical knowledge.

“Because _nice tame_ location spells don’t mix well with such powerful Dark magic,” Draco explained, eyes now shut. “And also because…it was only to be used in situations of betrayal. The idea is you can’t run, see—because they’ll just activate that last spell and find you and kill you. The burning away—it’s part of the punishment. Strips you of any power, supposedly. It’s all very symbolic.”

Harry watched him for a second. “Are you okay?” he asked, and both of them knew he wasn’t talking about the burn.

Draco slowly opened his eyes and turned his head towards Harry. “Are _you_ okay, Potter?”

Harry blinked. “No,” he answered.

Draco nodded. “Me either.”

They didn’t speak for a few minutes, but Draco finally broke the silence.

“Where are we?”

“Majorca, off the coast of Spain. This is a private Muggle resort,” Harry answered, picking at the tag on his chair.

“How romantic,” Draco deadpanned, and Harry flushed.

“Shut up. First place I thought of.”

Draco laughed, and Harry cracked a smile at the sound. Not that he liked Draco Malfoy’s laugh.

“So tell me, Harry. Why was Majorca, off the coast of Spain, the first place you thought of?” Draco twisted around to face Harry, eyebrows raised curiously.

Harry’s smile faded a bit.

“The Dursleys used to come here during vacations I wasn’t allowed on,” Harry explained, returning to his tag.

“The Dursleys—your adopted family, right?”

Harry laughed shortly. “I lived with them.”

Draco’s face twisted in confusion. “Did they not like you?”

Harry nodded. “It is possible, you know,” he teased lightly, though any playfulness he might have had was missing from his tone.

“Don’t I know it,” Draco sighed melodramatically.

_So he still has_ some _of his theatrics_ , Harry thought, and was strangely comforted by the fact.

“We can’t stay here,” Draco said, looking sideways at Harry again, as if gauging his reaction.

Harry nodded. “I know,” he said, turning his gaze on the ocean again. “We’re waiting for a Patronous from Kingsley or Ron.”

Draco sat up in alarm. “They know where we are?!”

Harry turned to him, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “I had to tell them how to reach us,” he said slowly.

Draco’s mouth dropped in open in horror. “Are you _insane_?!”

“What!”

“What if they’re captured, Potter! They’ll _torture them_ for our location!”

Anger flared in Harry’s chest, and he jumped to his feet. “They’d _never_ tell!”

“Oh, and you’re sure about that, are you?”

“YES I AM!” Harry yelled, and Draco snapped his mouth shut, fuming at him silently instead.

“That’s what friendship is, Draco,” Harry said, more calmly but still standing firm. “That's what happened with Hermione, and if it comes to it, that’s what will happen to Ron too. They’ll _never_ betray us.”

Draco stared at him for a long time, an unreadable expression on his face, before finally nodding.

As if on cue, Harry saw a silvery flash of light by the waves and turned to see a wispy Jack Russell terrier bounding up the shore towards Harry and Draco.

_“Harry—everyone safe. No change in Hermione…you’ve got to go on. Don’t come back—wards up and indestructible. Good luck, mate.”_ Ron’s voice came from the terrier as it stood there, stationary, gently waving its tail. As the message ended, the Patronous disappeared, and Harry and Draco were again left alone.

Harry let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and almost fell back into his chair, sagging in relief. “Thank Merlin,” he mumbled, burying his head in his hands.

“They’re safe,” Draco repeated in a numb disbelief, staring at something Harry couldn’t see. “You actually won…”

“That does happen,” Harry said, a bit defensively. Draco smiled grimly.

“Good to know I didn’t defect for a bunch of Gryffindor idiots,” he teased lightly, anxiously, trying unconsciously to provoke a smile from Harry.

It worked, he noted with a thrill of success as he watched a small smile spread its way across Harry’s face.

“Now you’re just stuck with one,” he said, and Draco’s eyebrows raised in surprise at the self-beratement.

“You’re not an idiot,” he said, a bit more seriously, and Harry actually laughed.

“You’re still a git,” he responded neutrally, stretching up now.

“Can’t have you rubbing off on me too much, can we?” Draco answered quietly, still smiling at Harry’s relaxing form.

A few minutes of silence passed until Draco feared they couldn't wait much longer.

“We can’t stay here,” he said simply.

Harry sighed and nodded. “I know.”

“Where should we go?”

Harry looked around. “Somewhere we can sleep,” he answered finally, shrugging.

 

They touched down in a forest somewhere Draco had picked, identifying it as the only place he’d ever gone camping. Harry thought it was a bit risky, but his exhaustion outweighed his desire to change locations.

“Do…do we just sleep on the ground?” Draco asked, looking around uneasily.

Harry looked at him for a second, and for the first time matched Draco with their surroundings. He started laughing suddenly, looking at Draco standing stiffly in his slightly dirty and very ruffled suit, shiny and expensive dragon-hide shoes staring distastefully at the abundance of green leaves above and below them.

Draco looked at Harry in alarm, who was bent in half, clutching his sides, still laughing.

“What on _earth_ could be so funny, Potter?” Draco snapped, feeling more uncomfortable every time Harry looked at him, tears of mirth in his eyes.

“You are,” Harry choked out, finally wiping his eyes and standing up, a wild grin still on his face.

“ _Me?_ ”

“Yeah! You—you…” Harry trailed off, shaking his head. “You are…woefully unprepared for this.”

Draco’s face hardened.

“Well _fine_ ,” he spat, and relished as Harry’s smile slipped off his face. “If I’m so damn _funny_ , having maybe _one_ encounter with…with _nature_ in my petty privileged Death Eater _life_ , I’ll just go somewhere else. Leave you and your _expert arse alone!_ ”

Draco glared at Harry, aware he was marring his hurt words a bit by the petulant expression on his face. Harry’s eyebrows were raised in surprise at Draco’s outburst.

“Draco, you know I didn’t mean it like that…” Harry tried, but Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m serious! I’m sorry.”

Draco met Harry’s eyes again and thought, not for the first time, that he might never tire of hearing Harry Potter apologize to him.

“I really, truly, honestly appreciate what you’ve done…for me, I guess.” Harry finished, looking at Draco earnestly.

Draco’s first instinct was to deny it—to deny that all of this—defecting, running, defying—was done for Harry’s benefit, but he realized abruptly that if he were to do so, he would be absolutely and utterly lying.

“I did do it for you,” he said out loud, blinking in the revelation. “All of it, for you.”

Harry’s eyebrows raised again, and he visibly blushed. “Er…it’s…appreciated,” he stammered, suddenly not meeting Draco’s gaze.

Draco snorted, clearing his head. “Better be,” he said lightly.

“Anyway,” Harry said, clearing his throat, “the tent.”

“There’s a tent?” Draco asked, some hope in his voice.

“Of course there’s a tent,” Harry answered, fishing Granger’s purse from his pocket.

“In the purse?” Draco drawled sarcastically, and was a bit thrown when Harry grinned at him.

“Yeah, actually.”

Draco watched as Harry held the purse out at arm’s length and pulled Bellatrix’s wand from his back pocket. He pointed it at the bag and said clearly,” _Accio tent!_ ”

His eyes widened in shock as a mass of cloth and metal flew from the tiny bag and landed on the foliage below.

“Stretching Charm,” Harry explained, smiling as Draco approached the mass on the ground.

“Granger?” Draco inquired quietly, feeling sorry when Harry’s smile flickered.

“Yeah,” he answered softly, then shook his head a bit. “Know how to set up a tent?”

Draco merely raised his eyebrows in reply, causing Harry to laugh again.

“Alright,” Harry said cheerfully, beginning to set up the tent with magic.

Draco looked around, feeling unease at the level of their exposure. The gaps between the trees, as lush and green as their branches may be, seemed to scream at him, protesting their visibility.

“Harry,” he said uncertainly, and the boy paused to look at him. “Don’t you use…spells? To hide?”

Harry’s mouth dropped open.

“Oh my god,” he said weakly, looking frantically around. “I—I was so caught up in…in everything, I forgot the spells! Hermione usually does them, and I—I just…”

“Harry,” Draco interjected, a bit startled by Harry’s reaction. “It’s okay, I don’t think anyone’s here.”

“You can’t know that. Just…here,” Harry said, handing him the purse, obviously still a bit panicked. “Summon some clothes out of that and change, I’ll do the spells.”

Draco nodded and took the bag, watching Harry walk around their half-set up campsite, unconsciously liking the look of concentration on Harry’s face.

He opened the bag and peered inside. The top layer contained a tube of a pale pink Muggle lip gloss and another thing that Draco didn’t recognize, along with a handful of Muggle cash. Beyond that, however, the pink floral fabric of the inside was blurred a bit, and seemed to deepen into a dark pit from which the outermost things had been spared from. It had all the signs of a complex and really quite impressive Stretching Charm, just like Harry had said. He somewhat begrudgingly mentally congratulated Granger, grateful for her ingenuity for perhaps the first time in his life.

Remembering what he was supposed to do, he pointed his wand at the bag and Summoned a pair of jeans. They looked a few inches too short, though the waist seemed about right. He reasoned they must be Harry’s, and lengthened them with his wand.

Then he froze, his mind catching up with his actions.

He was about to strip down, in the middle of a forest, in full view of none other than Harry Potter. And then, of course, he was to put on the Savior of the Wizarding World’s jeans.

Well, modified jeans.

He glanced at Harry, and muttered a curse under his breath as he saw the brunet had finished his task and was now watching Draco with a carefully neutral expression on his face.

Draco cleared his throat and reached for his belt buckle.

“I’ll finish the tent, then, shall I?” Harry broke the silence a bit too loudly, marching determinedly over to the mess of fabric and poles.

“Yeah,” Draco responded a bit weakly, undoing his belt quickly and yanking it through the loops. He quickly stripped off his trousers with a cursory glance towards Harry, who had his back tactfully turned.

He pulled Harry’s jeans on and was pleasantly surprised to find that they fit well enough. They were worn and comfortable, and— _holy hell, he was wearing Harry Potter’s jeans_. He stared down at his legs, marveling at the fact.

There was something decidedly intimate about it, even though it was simply the most practical thing to do in their situation. It said nothing about trust, or compassion, or really even about friendship. He was just…wearing Harry Potter’s jeans. And blushing because of it.

“Draco?” Harry called.

“Yeah?” He turned, hoping Harry would attribute the color in his cheeks to the cool weather.

Harry’s eyes flicked down to the jeans, and Draco felt a not totally unwelcome wave of heat wash over him, which in turn caused a flood of confusion to seep into his brain.

_That was…what was that?_

“The…er, tent’s ready,” Harry said, gesturing blindly to the tent erected behind him.

“Oh, good,” Draco replied, his voice steady. “I’ll just finish in there.”

Harry nodded and let him by.

_That_ cannot _have been what I think it was._

“I’ll just step outside.”

_Absolutely not._

Draco shook himself once Harry was out of sight, blinking away the exhaustion-driven thoughts. He shrugged off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt and cuffs, and was about to take it off when he heard the flap of the tent open and Harry’s voice start to ask him something.

“Hey, Draco, do you—“

Harry stopped short as Draco whirled around, as good as shirtless.

“—oh. God, sorry…”

Draco took a deep breath.

“It’s alright, Harry. What did you want to ask me?”

“Um, it can wait if…well, I just wanted to know if you knew if there were any…Muggle markets around here?”

Draco blinked. “Um. I doubt it.”

Harry nodded, as if he expected this answer. He turned to leave, his eyes flicking to Draco’s chest once more.

And then he stopped dead, eyes locked onto the smooth expanse of skin that was Draco’s torso.

_Except it’s not exactly smooth, is it, you idiot?_

Draco’s eyes shot down to his chest, to the deep and pure white scars that marred his upper body.

_Oh, shit_.

“I didn’t know it—it scarred,” Harry choked finally, unable to look away from the damage he had unwittingly caused almost a full year ago, in a lonely Hogwarts bathroom.

“It’s okay,” Draco said immediately, yanking his shirt back over the scars and crossing closer to Harry. “I stopped being angry with you about it a long time ago.”

Harry mutely shook his head, mouth open in unfound words, finally tearing his eyes away from Draco’s chest to stare pleadingly into his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Draco repeated, debating whether or not to get closer.

“Can't you—you can’t heal them?” Harry asked helplessly.

Draco hesitated, and then shook his head. “Not with the sort of…” he trailed off, looking for a way to explain his _curse scars_ delicately to _Harry Potter_. He cleared his throat. “Not with that spell.”

Harry’s hand rose perhaps inadvertently but stopped about halfway to Draco, as if he was reaching out to him.

_Maybe he is…_

Harry finally stepped closer, resting his hand on Draco’s shoulder. His eyes ran the length of his torso again, but Draco felt no thrill of… _whatever_ this time. He only felt an aching sadness, only felt the weight of all things unfair on both of their shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, and Draco had to amend his earlier thought.

Apparently, there _was_ a time when Draco tired of hearing Harry Potter apologize to him.

 

Harry took the first watch, hoping Draco was able to sleep well in the warmed tent. He cast Waking Charms periodically to try to shake off his drowsiness, but he found that they were becoming less and less effective. He’d have to wake Draco up soon.

As if the blond could read his thoughts, Harry heard footsteps pattering around in the tent before the flap opened to reveal a sleep-ruffled Draco. Something about the soft vulnerability he was unconsciously giving off warmed Harry, making him smile.

“Go sleep,” Draco mumbled, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“You sure?” Harry asked gently, still being extra-delicate around Draco following the discovery of the scars.

Draco rolled his eyes at Harry’s tone, and Harry fought the urge to laugh.

“Yes, I’m sure, Potter,” he replied, plopping down in the seat next to the opening of the tent.

Harry lingered there for a second more, watching Draco pull his knees up to his chest, his eyes staring warily but curiously out into the dark forest around them.

The night was relatively still, save for a chilly breeze that seemed to lazily curl around the atmosphere, reaching Draco and fluttering through his already sleep-mussed hair. Harry watched the little strands dance, and his eyes immediately snapped to Draco’s when the Slytherin looked up at him.

“I’m serious, Harry,” he said quietly, sincerely. “Get some sleep. I’m completely fine.”

Harry nodded, shaking himself, and disappeared inside the tent. He walked numbly over to the bunk Ron used to sleep in, for whatever reason, and collapsed on it.

He was asleep, as they say, before he even hit the pillow.

 

The early morning saw Harry waking suddenly, though not from any nightmare or unrest, sitting up in his bed and glancing over to see Draco’s empty bunk.

Harry cursed and threw back the covers. Why didn’t Draco wake him?

He padded outside the tent, and immediately softened at the sight of Draco in identically the same position as the night before, still staring off into the trees.

“Hey,” Harry said, before lowering himself onto the ground.

“Just in time for the sunrise,” Draco said, a bit absently, not really looking at his companion.

Harry nodded, his throat inexplicably constricting a bit as he turned his eyes away from the boy in the chair and focused instead on the quite beautiful palette of vivid colors blending together right above the treeline.

There were times that Harry marveled about the amount of sunrises he’s seen. Quite a lot more than most people, he thought, and considered the irony in this. Such a coveted thing, a sunrise, and in his unquestionably short lifespan, he watches them a sort of contemplative detachment.

So why was this one so different? Watching the sun climb its way up the pine trees seemed infinitely more interesting with each look Harry stole at Draco’s profile, the most relaxed and peaceful Harry had ever seen it.

Harry had forgotten how easy it was to connect to a person. If he thought about it, the last time it had really happened was Ron, that first day on the train, and the relief he had felt at meeting someone friendly and different and more or less just as clueless as to what was coming, who seemed to _like_ him.

And Draco was…something else entirely. It made sense in a way, Harry supposed. Someone who had provoked such intense reactions in him since the first time they met…maybe it would always be extremes with them. Going from blinding hate and fury to a profound instinct to protect, or even to connect with completely, was…jarring, perhaps, but Harry couldn’t say that it was unexpected.

That wasn’t to say that Harry even understood it all.

He really only knew that he didn’t watch that particular sunset as much as he watched Draco.

“Draco?” he asked suddenly, blinking as something occurred to him.

“Hm?”

“Um, where exactly are we?”

Draco finally looked at him fully, a hint of a blessedly familiar smirk on his face. “America. Colorado, specifically.”

Harry blinked. “America,” he repeated. “As in…The United States of?”

Draco laughed. “Yes, Potter. That one. Broke off formally from England in 1776? ‘We the People’ and all that?”

Harry gaped at him. “That’s Muggle history,” he remarked, eyebrows raised, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“Just because you learned about it in Muggle primary school does not mean it’s solely Muggle history,” he responded, a bit scathingly. “Honestly, Potter, you do know there are magical people in America and have been since its foundation?”

Harry flushed. “Well…yeah,” he mumbled. “I mean, I figured…”

Draco looked at him curiously, any trace of derision gone. “Are you interested?”

Harry shrugged, not sure how to tell him he’d just love to hear Draco talk to him.

_Another new thing,_ he thought, a bit wryly.

Draco inhaled and leaned back in his chair. “So, as you know, after Columbus was literally the last person in the world to ‘discover’ America, people began to colonize. And hopefully, you also know that the historical forms of the Ministry of Magic and the Muggle Governments have always somewhat worked together, however loosely or unfriendly relations have been.”

Harry nodded at that, remembering Kingsley protecting the Prime Minister.

“So when people began to sail over to colonize the New World, the Ministry back then sent over a certain percentage of wizards and witches too. When they got tangled in with the Muggles there, they started getting the same ideas of revolution and independence and all of those golden words that go so well with big change. So, the American Revolution became a Wizarding issue too,” Draco finished, his eyes returning to Harry’s.

“Do you like history, Draco?” Harry asked, his voice subdued but his eyes shining.

Draco shrugged. “Yeah. Yeah, I actually do. Why?”

Harry shrugged back. “It’s kinda cute,” he said, unthinkingly, and his heart stopped when he saw Draco freeze, his eyes blowing wide.

_Holy shit,_ what?

“I mean—you were all—I—I’m still not totally awake, I’m sorry. That was…er, sorry,” Harry stammered, feeling the red hot flush of mortification heat every inch of his skin, staring hard at the ground.

Draco stared at him for a second, eyes still wide. “Well,” he replied easily after a moment, “good to know I’m good for something.”

Harry laughed, feeling his body relax a little bit.

_Maybe that wasn’t so bad…_

Draco laughed with him, and if his laugh was a bit more breathless than usual, neither of them said any more about it.

 

After breakfast, which consisted mainly of whatever Harry could Summon from the purse, the boys found themselves at a temporary loss regarding a course of action.

Draco looked around the tent, his eyes coming to rest on Harry, who was lying on his bunk and staring up at the tent ceiling, evidently deep in thought.

“Is this what usually happens? In the fight against evil?” Draco asked, with genuine curiosity.

Harry looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

Draco gestured around the tent. “We’re just kind of sitting here, aren’t we? I mean, not that I’m particularly complaining, but…is this really how it goes? On the run, I mean?” Draco realized he was rambling and abruptly shut his mouth.

Harry sighed.

“No, actually. Usually we’re planning, discussing, investigating, or running. Right now, I’m…trying to wrap my head around one thing at a time.”

“Investigating?” Draco asked. “What, you solve crimes now?”

Harry snorted. “No, I meant…” he trailed off, studying Draco. “I have to start from the beginning with you, don't I?”

Draco wasn’t sure whether to look affronted or sheepish.

Harry closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Sitting up, he opened his eyes and motioned for Draco to come and sit beside him.

As Draco sat down, he could feel Harry’s gaze on him, and he met it as steadily as possible. The green irises bore into him, searching him, formulating questions Draco could practically see whizzing around in the boy’s brain.

He swallowed, feeling a bit less solid as he continued to match Harry’s stare.

_I wonder if he knows the effect he has on people when he does that,_ Draco thought. _Those eyes shouldn’t belong on a seventeen year old boy with glasses._

“Draco,” Harry began, his voice low and serious. Draco felt a spasm of nerves in his stomach, and his pulse sped up. “I’m about to tell you literally every piece of information that will decide the outcome of this war. But before I do that, I need you to answer one question as honestly as humanly possible.” If anything, Harry’s gaze intensified. “Please. I need to know.”

Draco exhaled, thinking he’d never forget Harry Potter’s eyes.

“Anything, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes finally flicked away, softening as they did so.

Draco, far from relaxing himself, felt as though something had been ripped from him, his breathing pattern a bit unsteady and world just a bit off-kilter.

“Why did you rescue me?”

The question was far from unexpected, but it sent a shock of nervousness through Draco’s system all the same. He sighed, and looked down, the silence thrumming in between them.

From the moment of his impromptu rescue to their daring escape and finally to his short but helpful sleep, Draco barely had had time to breathe deeply, let alone think about exactly why he was there.

But last night had seen Draco alone and undisturbed for the first time while Harry slept soundly on behind him, and he had finally allowed his mind to drift back to what happened and why.

“I realize now that me…getting out somehow…was probably inevitable, and it had been building up for a long time. While becoming an actual Death Eater was always supposed to sound glorious, the act itself is horrifying, to say the least. It’s not honorable, or dignified. All that pomp and circumstance and claim to even your humanity flies away in the presence of um, You-Know-Who. It’s fear, it’s chaos, and it’s dark. There’s no ulterior motive to most of it, really. It’s just his power. Just him—all consuming.” He paused, shuddering, and looked up to see Harry staring at him again. His eyes were supportive, wide, and held an invitation for Draco to continue.

“I can never go back there. Even if I could, I won’t. These last two years have had me questioning everything I believed in, I was just too scared to do anything. And then you showed up in my living room over Easter and _goddamn,_ Harry, but there was no chance in hell I was going to watch you die.” Draco never looked away from Harry’s rapidly widening eyes, trying to pour sincerity into every word.

“But…why?” Harry whispered. “Why then?”

Draco snorted and broke the eye contact as he leaned back on the bed, his head and shoulders resting on the opposite wall.

“In the end it was the most arbitrary thing,” Draco answered, still with the ghost of a bemused smile on his lips. “All that deliberation and fear and oppression, and it came down to…I don’t know, some sort of gross sentimentality.”

“A gross sentimentality,” Harry repeated blankly.

“Yeah, Potter. You.”

Harry laughed suddenly, a short burst of incredulous laughter that had Draco sitting up in protest.

“I’m serious!”

“No you’re not!”

“I am!”

“You’re actually saying that I, Harry Potter, caused you, Draco Malfoy, to suddenly defy your family and master because of—what, my sparkling personality?” Harry said, arms crossed over his chest and eyes surveying Draco doubtfully.

“It was actually the way you looked at me,” Draco replied nonchalantly, and Harry’s arms fell back to their sides. Draco glanced at him before continuing. “You stared me down, quite frankly—I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, you had glared at me across hallways and classrooms for seven years, but that was different. When you looked at me at the Manor, you weren’t angry. You weren’t even pleading for your life, you were just…watching me. Like…you were expecting something.”

“I don’t know what I was expecting from you,” Harry returned quietly. “I mean, I didn't want to try and trick myself into thinking that you were gonna…well, do you what you actually did, but…” he trailed off, taking a big breath. “I guess I have something to confess too,” he admitted, looking up at Draco a bit hesitantly.

Draco drew his legs into himself, turning so he was cross-legged, facing Harry on the mattress. “What?” he inquired.

“I was there when Dumbledore died,” Harry said in rush, not meeting Draco’s eyes. “When you tried to…I was there.”

Draco’s blinked. “No you weren’t,” he said thickly, his mind whirling.

It wasn’t right, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Harry wasn’t supposed to see him like that. He couldn’t have been there. Not _him,_ not _then._

“I was,” Harry whispered, almost inaudibly. “Dumbledore had me go somewhere with him, and—everything was going wrong, we came back and went back to his office…he hid me as you came in…” he closed his eyes, choking on the rest of his sentence.

“Harry,” Draco responded shakily, “that was the worst night of my life.”

“I know,” Harry responded, seeming to have regained his composure. “I know it was. And I knew you weren’t going to do it.”

“That’s what _he_ said,” Draco gasped, closing his eyes to prevent the prickling of tears in his eyes from spilling over. “Dumbledore. He told me I wasn’t a murderer.”

“You aren’t,” Harry affirmed, leaning forward and placing a hand solidly on Draco’s shoulder. “You aren’t. My point in all of this is that…from the minute I saw you hesitate, start to lower your wand, I knew there was something more to you. You were more than the Mark on your arm.”

Draco exhaled, something more akin to a dry sob than an actual breath. He trembled as Harry moved his hand from his shoulder to cover up the ugly wound on his left forearm. He felt Harry’s fingers wrap soothingly around it and he opened his eyes to meet Harry’s gentle gaze.

“You _are_ more than the scar that it left.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotions! Score!  
> So yeah, for those of you who wanted more of an exchange than like "i think i'll make friends with harry potter today", you've got it. Like I could leave them without a heartfelt emotional conversation anyway.  
> Don't worry, I've got their relationship developments all mapped out. Problems and all. All you have to do is wait!  
> Please if you liked it or are confused or whatever then just leave me a comment below :)  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alriiiiiight.  
> I was gonna wait until tomorrow to post, but I figured a lot of you guys would be busy with Christmas and all :)  
> So, now we start getting into more plot stuff. Harry really does start from the beginning here-throwing it all the way back to his sixth year.  
> Hope you like it, and happy holidays!

“So,” called Draco from outside the tent. “Do I have your trust yet, Potter?”

He heard a warm laugh in response and smiled to himself.

It was mid-afternoon now: a few hours after The Conversation, as Draco had dubbed it in his mind, and a few hours after Draco had subsequently allowed himself to be soothed and comforted and even _cared for_ by none other than Harry Potter. Draco never really tired of marveling at his situation.

That embarrassingly soul-baring exchange had made everything a bit awkward for the two boys after the atmosphere around them had calmed down a bit, dropping the dramatic and heavy feel to everything. They couldn’t hold each other’s eyes for more than a second, as if they had entered a territory neither of them were comfortable with yet.

Harry had taken all this as initiative to get into the fray once again, this time bringing Draco into things as well. He was currently setting up everything he needed to explain what exactly the Golden Trio had been doing in the fight against Voldemort. He had forbade Draco’s entry into the tent until everything was ready, much to Draco’s annoyance.

“Okay,” Harry finally announced, “It’s ready, I think.”

Draco rolled his eyes and strolled into the tent.

“ _Finally_ , Potter. Merlin, I thought—“ Draco broke off and stopped short at the sight of what Harry had done.

The brunet was standing in the middle of a ring of paraphernalia, with a triumphant smile on his face. He was surrounded by a miniature library—the responsibility of that one Draco assumed to Granger. Strewn about were also, inexplicably, various broken or destroyed treasures. There was one thing, however, that drew his eye immediately.

“Harry,” he said measuredly, kneeling down. “Why do you have the Sword of Gryffindor?”

Harry looked at him perplexedly. “Weren’t you listening at the Manor? Bellatrix almost killed Griphook over it.”

“I think I was more focused on you than her at that point,” Draco shrugged, willing his face not to show the surge of fear that went through him at the mere mention of his aunt’s name.

“Okay,” replied Harry, obviously skating over another sensitive area. “Well, um, I guess…legally, the sword is mine. I think. Hermione seemed to think that it was.”

Draco crossed forward and sat down, looking at Harry skeptically. “Did you just say that you _own_ the Sword of Gryffindor?”

Harry nodded, running a hand over the rubies encrusted in the hilt. “Dumbledore left it to me. In his will.”

“I’m assuming he thought you’d need it?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Fighting _what_? Another basilisk?”

Harry laughed, and though it was good-natured, it was a bit disbelieving.

“Draco,” he tried, “you do know who we’re fighting, right? He’s only been trying to kill me since I was born.”

Draco colored. “Well, yeah—but has anyone ever tried just running a sword through You-Know-Who?”

Harry’s mouth popped open, his face changing to an expression of mild amazement. One side of his mouth was quirked up in a small smile, as if he was trying to not to laugh in wonder.

“What?” Draco snapped, on the defensive.

“Nothing,” Harry replied hurriedly. “It’s just…that’s what I said. When they gave it to me.”

“Oh.” Draco blinked a few times. “Well, great minds think alike…and all that.”

Harry’s expression turned teasing. “You think I have a great mind, Draco?”

“Shut up, Potter.” Draco said, scowling, though his words held no heat. “So what _are_ you using the sword for?”

Harry pursed his lips, scrutinizing the mess around him. Draco tried very hard not to think of the word ‘ _endearing_ ’.

“We really are getting ahead of ourselves,” Harry said, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“Okay then, why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“If you insist,” Harry smiled grimly. He picked up an old and actually sort of disgusting book from the middle of the pile and handed it carefully to Draco.

“Ever heard of a Horcrux, Draco?”

“A Horcrux?” The word felt strange in Draco’s mouth. Unnatural—he didn’t like it. “No.”

“Well, that book is all about what they are—how to create them and even how to destroy them.”

“What are they?” Draco asked, cautiously opening the book and grimacing at the gruesome cover art.

“It’s…well, a Horcrux is a part of your soul contained in a certain object.”

Draco looked up, alarmed, and he pushed the book off of his lap. “That can happen?”

Harry let out a small breath. “Yeah. Voldemort made them.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “ _Why_? I mean, that’s…that’s got to be incredibly Dark Magic…wouldn't it have been excruciating? Splitting your soul, I mean… _Merlin_ …”

“Well, the point was probably worth the pain to him,” Harry explained. “See, as long as part of your soul is contained in an object and not in your body…you can’t really die.”

Silence fell as Draco absorbed Harry’s words. Slowly, he began to feel a great despair and coldness icing through his veins.

“He…he’s _immortal_?”

“Well, hopefully, not for much longer.”

Draco looked at him for a minute, thinking about what Harry had told him. Ignoring the part of his brain screaming his situation’s helplessness at him, he instead chose to ask: “These Horcruxes, how do you make them?”

“Murder,” Harry replied softly, looking at a shiny but damaged—

“Holy _shit_!” Draco yelled, jumping to his feet.

“What?!” Harry scrambled upright as well, looking wildly around the tent.

“That—that’s Slytherin’s Locket!”

Harry stared at him for a second before letting out a huge breath of air.

“ _Merlin_ , Draco, you can’t _scare_ me like that!” He sat back down and regained his composure, and Draco followed suit slowly.

“How did you _get_ that?” Draco asked, his eyes wide.

Harry’s lips did something funny, as if he was fighting back a smile. “We. Um. We kind of…well we knew _who_ had it, it was…just a matter of _getting_ to her…”

“Who had it?”

“Dolores Umbridge.”

Draco stared at him blankly. “You _broke into Umbridge’s house_ to get this?”

Harry’s face reddened. “Erm, no. We…broke into the _Ministry_ to get that.”

Draco threw his head back and laughed. “No you didn’t.”

“Yeah, we did!”

Draco shook his head slowly, not sure whether or not to hope that Harry had gone insane. “Potter, if _you_ had broken into the _Ministry of fucking Magic_ I would have heard about it. I mean, that seems like something You-Know-Who would have mentioned!”

“Is it though?” Harry challenged, sitting up straighter. “Maybe his ego was a bit wounded! I mean, I quite literally walked into the Ministry and back out again. Doesn’t seem a good thing to include in the standard Death Eater pep talks.”

Draco gaped at him. “Let me get this straight. You broke into the Ministry of Magic. You stole a precious heirloom from—where, exactly? Her office?”

“Er, her neck.”

“ _Fucking hell_.”

Harry looked sheepishly back at Draco, a hesitant smile on his face as the blond stared at him in amazement.

“You, Potter, are an anomaly.” Draco remarked, grinning when he saw color flood Harry’s cheeks.

“Well, to be fair, so are you,” Harry returned, his smile growing and making Draco’s chest tighten.

“Harry,” he mocked, fluttering his eyes elegantly and placing a hand on his heart. “You’re making me blush.”

“Well, good.” Harry full on grinned, and Draco couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I thought I was an anomaly. You were being so nice!”

“The two aren’t necessarily exclusive.”

Harry fell flat on his back, giggling with hand covering his mouth.

The sound filled Draco with an ease and infectious lightheartedness as he watched him, fascinated, mouth still curved in a smile.

He must have stared at Harry a bit more than openly than intended, for Harry caught sight of his gaze and his giggles reduced, leaving a shy smile in its place and his blush returned in full.

Draco dropped his eyes, clearing his throat and looking around at the items still only partially explained.

“So, that’s what you've been doing? Looking for Horcruxes?”

Harry nodded, back to serious conversation now.

“How do you get rid of one?”

“Well. It’s not easy.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I can imagine.”

“There are ways, though. Basilisk venom is one—that’s how I got rid of Tom Riddle’s diary—“

“ _What?!”_ Draco yelped, jumping backwards, and Harry actually _laughed_ again.

“Oh yeah, I forgot I gave that back your father…”

“ _Forgot_? Harry, that thing has been on my shelf for _five years_!”

Harry laughed harder.

“Stop laughing!”

“I can’t! That's—that’s hilarious!”

Draco glared at him until Harry calmed down.

“Okay. Okay, sorry. Next question?”

Draco sniffed a bit before continuing, not entirely missing Harry’s eye roll but electing to ignore it.

“How many are there?”

“Six.”

“ _Six?!_ ” Draco’s eyes widened in horror. “That can’t—he split his soul _six times_?”

“He wanted seven,” Harry said, shrugging. “Are you really that surprised?”

“I guess not,” Draco said, still reeling. “But…how many have you destroyed?”

“Um…three.”

“Three,” Draco repeated, feeling the prickling of desperation in his extremities. “Potter, good God.”

“Yeah,” Harry seemed to echo his sentiment. “But um, about that—I think I might have an idea about where the next one might be. But I’m going to need your help.”

Draco snorted. “Don't you know that you kind of have my help permanently now?”

Harry smiled at him. “Well, maybe not when I tell you where I think it is.”

Draco’s amusement immediately turned to wariness. “Where?”

“Gringotts.”

“Good God.” Draco’s heart sank. Gringotts had always been the pinnacle on impenetrability in the Wizarding World, and now Harry wanted to retrieve something belonging to Voldemort right in the heart of it. “Whose vault?”

Harry held his eyes while he answered. “Your aunt’s.”

Draco blinked. “Potter, you’ve got to stop dropping bombs like that on me,” he said, his voice wavering. “That’s impossible. You know it is.”

“Breaking into the Ministry should have been impossible, too,” Harry argued, and Draco didn’t really have an answer ready for that.

“Still not totally convinced that actually happened,” he mumbled, and Harry smirked.

“So?” Harry pressed, his eyebrows raised in expectation.

“So what?”

“You gonna help me?”

Draco sighed. “Tell you what, Potter. Let’s have dinner before we start planning to break into a bank, shall we?”

“So you _are_ gonna help me.”

“Yeah, Harry. I’m gonna help you.” Draco acquiesced. “And hopefully live through it,” he added as an afterthought.

 

Dinner was the next pressing issue, and both boys found themselves at a sort of loss.

“Hermione usually took care of it,” Harry had explained, “And you said you didn’t think there are any Muggle markets around here, so…I guess we have to see what we can find.”

“What we can _find_?” Draco had echoed, disbelieving. “We’re going to—what, _catch_ our food?”

Harry had, of course, taken this as some sort of challenge, and had immediately rushed out to find a bird or something equally ridiculous to cook for both of them.

Draco had followed, somewhat warily, behind him, and was now resting against a tree as Harry wandered around somewhere in front of him.

“Do the wards go this far back?” Draco called, fairly certain Harry wouldn’t be so careless as to leave their protective shields.

“Yeah, they do,” came the predicted reply, and the pair of them lapsed back into silence.

Draco shifted his position against the bark as he watched Harry stalk something he couldn’t see about fifty feet ahead of him.

 _He needs a haircut_ , Draco thought, as he eyed the shaggy black hair, which fell almost to Harry’s shoulders, fall messily around the boy’s head. Draco was certain Granger would have packed scissors in her bag, and resolved to give him one after dinner.

His mind, not for the first time, drifted back to the Horcruxes. All of the ones Harry had told him about—the diary, the ring, and the locket—had been incredibly personal or valuable items. It took knowledge about someone to know where they’d put a part of their soul, wouldn’t it? And Draco, as horrible as it was, _did_ have some inside knowledge about Voldemort, didn’t he?

He closed his eyes and cast his memory back to all of the meetings he had been forced to sit through, trying to remember any item mentioned in length or in passing that had stuck out, or had been given noticeable attention. He tried to think back to their own personal vaults at Malfoy Manor, but it seemed unlikely, given the Malfoy’s recent fall from favor, that Voldemort would have kept anything there.

“DRACO!”

His thoughts were immediately broken by Harry crying his name, and he snapped his head up in alarm.

“Harry?!”

“Draco!”

Harry was running to him, a wide grin on his face, levitating something brown and grey in front of him. Draco relaxed.

“I caught a rabbit!” Harry exclaimed proudly, showing Draco an obviously Stunned rabbit.

“Oh good,” replied Draco sardonically, trying to cover up the fear he had not five seconds earlier. “I was wondering if the Chosen One knew how to catch a rabbit. Looks like I can put that worry to bed.”

Harry smirked at him, obviously seeing through his cover. “Whatever, Malfoy.”

 _Damn. That’s new,_ Draco thought.

Harry walked in front of him back to the tent, still idly levitating the poor rabbit. Draco watched it absently, his mind going back to Voldemort and the Horcruxes.

Suddenly, the two things lined up together in his mind and he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh,” he breathed, the realization still wrapping itself around him. “Oh!”

Harry stopped and turned around. “Draco?”

“Harry,” Draco asked, suddenly excited. “Can living things be turned into Horcruxes too?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replied slowly. “What are you thinking?”

“His snake! Nagini!”

Harry’s lips parted in surprise. “You think Nagini is a Horcrux?”

“I think she’s his most recent,” Draco replied, nodding. “For about a year now, he’s kept Nagini right at his side, always. In this—protective cage thing he holds above the table. He only lets her out to eat…Harry, I think she must be a Horcrux!”

“Draco, you’re brilliant,” Harry said sincerely, eyes blazing again for a reason Draco couldn’t discern.

“Thank you,” he returned, smiling, which made Harry’s face break out into a grin.

“See? Fighting evil—not so hard,” Harry said, jokingly, turning back around and falling into step with Draco.

Draco laughed. “Why did I ever doubt you?”

“I dunno why anyone does,” Harry said, mock-seriously. “I’m kind of a catch.”

Draco laughed harder, and Harry whacked him on the arm.

“No, I’m sorry, you are. A right charmer.” Draco said, throwing him a sidelong smirk and winking, and he took pride in hearing Harry’s breath catch.

 _Still got it_ , he thought smugly, before he realized he probably shouldn’t be trying to charm Harry Potter.

 _Right_.

The silence that then fell between them was a bit ringing, the crunching of the leaves below their feet a bit too loud and the setting sun suddenly a bit too bright.

Everything was suddenly just a bit too intense.

 

“So do you know how to cook a rabbit, Potter?” Draco’s voice shook Harry out of his reverie and he realized they had reached the tent.

Harry looked at the rabbit, and the rabbit looked back.

“Um. No.”

Harry flushed as Draco rolled his eyes, something he did entirely too much, so he levitated the rabbit towards Draco.

“You do it, then,” Harry challenged, and was entirely thrown when Draco smirked at him again, something _else_ he did entirely too often.

“Alright, Potter. Give me the rabbit. And a knife.”

Harry stared. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked, a bit weakly, lowering the rabbit to the floor.

The smirk hadn’t moved, much to Harry’s annoyance. And Christ, but it wouldn’t be so much of a damn problem if Harry didn’t keep _blushing_ every time he saw the damn thing.

“I do actually know how to cook a lot of things,” Draco said, matter-of-factly, casting a spell on the Stunned rabbit, rendering it unconscious so Draco could kill it. “Just because I don’t know how to pitch a tent doesn’t mean I don’t know to cook game.”

“Okay,” Harry replied simply, none of that making any sense to him. “I’ll leave you to it, then?”

“Unless you want to watch?” Draco asked, his voice lilting upwards as he met Harry’s eyes.

If Harry didn’t know better, he would have almost dared to consider Draco’s tone _suggestive_. Shaking his head a bit, he told himself firmly there was no way _anyone_ would be making innuendo over a dead rabbit.

 _Not that Draco would be suggestive around me at all,_ he added. _And not that I would want him to._

 

The rabbit was surprisingly good—better, Harry had to admit, than the pitiful attempts Hermione would make them on nights they didn’t have food from the market. Draco had inexplicably _spiced_ it—you can “find oregano anywhere”, apparently—and Harry found himself wishing he could have more.

“Well, you’re officially in charge of food,” Harry decided, leaning back from the table.

Draco twirled his hands, inclining his head and leaning forward slightly in a mock bow, and Harry smiled.

“Now, Potter,” he said gleefully, jumping up. “Now comes the fun part of the evening.”

Harry’s mind went blank. “The—what?” he stammered.

“Your hair,” Draco explained, nodding at the offending mess, “has gotten horribly out of control.”

“You…you’re going to cut my hair,” Harry inferred, eyeing Draco cautiously.

“Potter, I just cooked you a rabbit you _caught_. In the _woods_. Do you not trust me with your hair?” Draco asked tiredly.

Harry could only sigh in resignation.

“Good!” Draco trilled triumphantly, whirling around to grab Hermione’s bag from the table. “ _Accio scissors!”_

Predictably, a pair of silver generic scissors flew out and Draco caught them deftly by the handles.

“Draw up a chair,” Draco instructed, and Harry obediently pulled the one he had used at dinner forward. “Sit.”

Harry sat, and Draco came up behind him.

“If you so much as prick me with those scissors I wi—“ Harry’s sentence stuttered to halt as Draco unexpectantly carded a hand through his hair, sending a thrill from his scalp to his spine.

“I won’t,” Draco promised, much more softly than the words required.

“Okay,” Harry whispered back, not trusting his voice to do anything else.

“I’ll just cut it like it was back at school,” Draco said, still playing with the strands of hair at the back of Harry’s head.

“You…you remember what my hair was like at school?” Harry manages, trying to think around Draco’s fingers.

“Yeah,” Draco replied simply. Harry felt him gather his hair at the base of his shoulders— _had it really gotten that long_?—and heard the soft snip of scissors behind him. Short black hairs fell around his shoulders and onto the ground, quite a few sticking the back of his neck.

“Oh, sorry,” Draco murmured, brushing a hand over the sensitive skin, and Harry suppressed a shiver. Draco cast a Repelling Charm on his upper body and set to work, snipping around his ears and trimming it away from his neck and…well, Harry had no idea what he was doing. He could only feel the tug at different strands of his hair and Draco’s cool fingers brushing his scalp, his neck, his ears, his shoulders.

It was some kind of torture, Harry thought, to be given a quiet and intimate haircut—and Harry, before that night, never would of guessed those adjectives could be accurately be applied to a haircut—by a boy who, three days ago, he had thought was actively trying to kill him.

But it definitely wasn’t for fear of Draco suddenly stabbing him through the neck, or even rendering him completely bald. No, it was the way Harry fought not to close his eyes or sigh or even move as Draco touched him fleetingly, accidentally, or precisely. And fuck if that wasn’t unnerving enough.

Draco moved around to the front of him and kneeled down to inspect his bangs and whatever hair fell into the front of his face.

His eyes roamed Harry’s face and connected with eyes for a moment, the grey lingering on the green before traveling back up the hair that now fully covered his scar.

“I’m going to cut your bangs now—stand up, I’ll get a better angle.”

Harry stood, feeling the back of his head as he did so. It felt fine—he didn’t feel any gaping holes or inconsistencies.

Draco saw his expression and lifted an eyebrow. “It looks fine, Harry. Just how it used to be. In fact…” his expression changed to one of curiosity, “did you charm your hair ever at all?”

Harry blinked. “No?”

“Well, I could have sworn your hair grew as I cut it,” Draco replied, looking like he didn’t believe Harry.

Suddenly, Harry remembered the disaster of Aunt Petunia and the kitchen haircut and he burst out laughing, startling Draco.

“Sorry, I remember—my hair’s always done that. One of the first ways my magic presented, actually,” Harry explained, “Whenever it thinks it gets too short, it kind of grows out to the right length.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Draco huffed, and Harry grinned. “Come on then, let’s get your bangs done.”

Harry tilted his head up so he could try and match Draco’s two inches over him.

“Close your eyes,” Draco said, stepping closer and his now focused intently on his face. Harry mind blanked for a moment before he remembered what Draco was actually doing.

 _Fucking hell, Harry. Get it together_ , he told himself firmly, trying not to let any of this show on his face as he closed his eyes, per Draco’s request.

Draco stepped closer, and as Harry’s other senses strengthened, he had to suppress another sigh as he could _feel_ how close Draco was.

He was going insane. He was tired, a lot had happened, he was going absolutely insane. That was fine, right? He was Harry Potter. He was allowed insanity sometimes.

Then he heard Draco’s slight hitch in his breathing pattern as his fingers brushed along Harry’s forehead, accidentally caressing his scar as he began to cut his bangs. He managed to keep his eyes closed until finally Draco stepped away.

“Now I can see your eyes,” he remarked, sounding satisfied, and Harry opened his eyes to simmering gray eyes locked onto his. The warmth of something electrical and tingling flooded through him, and his mind screamed at him as he dropped his eyes, trying and failing not to flush.

“Thanks,” said Harry into the silence, and Draco smiled and nodded.

“It needed to be done,” he replied, and Harry resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. “I’m gonna make a fire outside, it gets cold in here even with the Warming Charms.”

Harry nodded wordlessly, and watched Draco exit the tent before letting out a long, slow breath.

 

Draco had no problem gathering firewood, and soon had a warm and roaring fire going, his chair stationed carefully away from the dancing embers.

He usually reserved fires for times of contemplation, or at least companions in school study or the focused art of potions, but as he huddled in front of this one, the blanket he had dragged off of his bunk wrapped around him, he found he could not condense his thought onto anything but straining to hear if Harry would come outside to join him.

Sure enough, he soon heard the scraping of another wooden chair against the ground as Harry brought the chair and the blanket to the spot beside Draco.

Draco glanced at him, taking in his worn eyes, staring listlessly into the fire. He saw his slumped pose, bowed head and dangling hands, and was reminded with a faint smile of what Harry used to look like after a particularly grueling Potions lesson.

But this was different, and Draco knew it. This was not the result of a moody Snape or a voracious Granger—this was the consequence of being made into a warrior at a year old, the result of becoming a martyr at seventeen.

“What are you thinking about?” Draco asked, and his mouth quirked down at the unoriginality of his own question.

Harry didn’t seem to mind, however; he just leaned back in his chair, his eyes moving from the fire to the darkening forest around them.

“What happens after,” he answered. “After all this.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “I would have thought it was obvious,” he answered, and Harry turned his head to look at him.

“Obvious?”

“Yeah,” Draco replied, a slight bitterness laced in his words. “You live as a hero again. Marry the girl Weasley, _Ginny_ , and have loads of heroic children that will grow up to one day be the princes and princesses of Gryffindor, just like you two. The end.”

Harry was quiet for a second, perhaps a bit stunned, and then laughed out loud.

“Yeah? That’s not going to happen.”

Draco looked at him again. “Why wouldn’t it?”

Harry looked back for a few seconds before turning back to the fire.

“I might’ve thought that was going to happen,” Harry answered, “Last year. I don't know. But I broke it off with Ginny months ago, and…god, but I thought I’d miss her.”

Draco’s lips parted in surprise. “You don't?”

Harry continued to stare at the flames. “I hardly think about her.”

“And here I thought you two were…deeply in love and all that.” Draco remarked, a smile he wasn’t totally aware of pulling at a corner of his mouth.

Harry snorted. “Not really. Honestly…I think what happened was that Ginny finally became an actual friend to me instead of just ‘Ron’s sister’. And I…I don't know, I guess I just liked her finally. It wasn’t much of anything, really.”

Draco nodded, even though Harry wasn’t looking at him. They sat in silence for a few moments before Harry spoke.

“Have you ever felt like that?” he asked quietly, and Draco was thoughtlessly frustrated that Harry still hadn’t looked at him for more than a second.

“Like what?”

“Like…deeply in love, what you were talking about. ‘The one’ and all that.”

Draco’s eyes dropped to the ground.

It still stung, somewhere deep inside his chest. The nights he’d cried himself to sleep in fourth and fifth year, all over dreams and hopes and fantasies that would forever go unfulfilled. That whole catastrophe, however, led him to the first doubt he ever had about the success or righteousness of a pureblood empire, and he therefore felt Harry should know.

“I thought I did.” Draco answered, and _finally_ he saw Harry lift his head and look at him.

“Who?”

Draco glanced at him, a grim smile twisting his face. Harry would know two of his secrets tonight, it seemed.

“Blaise Zabini.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he said, the light of understanding flashing in his eyes.

Draco laughed. “Don’t tell my father.”

“I was just about to owl him,” Harry replied dryly, and then, more quietly: “What happened?”

“Pureblood aristocracy happened,” he answered softly. “First time in my life I really started to question that whole structure.”

“Purebloods can’t be gay?”

Draco sighed, his misdirected frustration flaring up. “Think about it. If you’re gay, you can’t very well produce an heir. If you don’t…well, marry who you’re supposed to, there’s a big chance you’ll be disowned.”

“So…that’s what happened?”

Draco nodded. “His mum caught us one day. Promised to keep the secret on two conditions: one—it would never happen again, and two—Blaise would propose the next summer to a girl of his father’s choosing.”

“And he agreed?”

“How could he not?” Draco answered bitterly, his lip curling.

Harry was quiet for a second. “What…what did you say to him?”

Draco swallowed, wondering in dry amusement how the hell Harry seemed to know him so well. He saw Blaise’s face in his mind’s eye, both of them just fifteen years old. His expression was a mask of detachment, of resolution and a stoic decision. His eyes had betrayed him, though—the chocolate irises swimming with pain and regret, and it was his eyes that had led Draco to plead with him.

 _“Please,”_ he had said, _“don’t do it.”_

“I asked him not to. I asked him to stay with me,” Draco answered, looking Harry full on.

Harry’s eyes widened in sympathy. “It didn’t happen.” It wasn’t a question.

“Obviously not,” Draco said anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, sounding like he was at a loss at what to offer Draco.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Draco sighed.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m still sorry.”

“Well. Thank you.”

And they fell into a solemn silence, comfortable but not ideal. A thought suddenly occurred to Draco, and it almost made him laugh out loud.

“Cho Chang?” he offered, a devious smile spreading across his face.

Harry whipped around to face him. “What the hell?”

“Weren’t you oh so desperately in love with Cho Chang all through fourth year?” Draco crowed, and Harry scowled.

“I thought she was pretty. And she was the first girl, save Hermione, that actually talked to me normally. And smiled at me. I was hardly _in love_ with her!” Harry protesting, moping, and Draco grinned wider.

“I’m liking the reveal of your romantic history much more than the recalling of mine. In fact, I’d say you owe me because I decidedly _did not_ like talking about my tragic love story. Start from the beginning, tell me every crush you’ve ever had. Spare no details.” Draco was alight with a sudden enthusiasm, and he swung excitedly around in his chair to face Harry, who was looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“You know, I’m surprised I didn’t see ‘gay’ sooner,” Harry remarked, waving a hand towards Draco, and Draco’s mouth dropped open, color tinting his cheeks.

“ _Potter!_ ”

Harry laughed. “Sorry! Kidding.”

Draco sniffed, still glaring at Harry.

“Seriously! Kidding. You want my full romantic history?” he asked, amusement in his voice, and Draco nodded. “It’s not very interesting.”

Draco laughed. “I don’t care.”

Harry grinned, closing his eyes for a second.

Draco watched him then, his lips spread in an easy smile, eyes closed and head titled up. It looked almost like indulgence, the warmth of the fire coating both of them and the light from the flames flickering easily on Harry’s face.

Draco, for once, allowed the rush of affection to wash over him in full as he watched the boy, his smile softening and eyes gleaming.

“I never liked anyone like that until Hogwarts,” Harry began, opening his eyes, the comfortable smile still on his face. “And I guess Cho was the first time it happened, in third year, though I guess nothing really happened until a year later. But still, my list only totals three.”

“Three?”

“Yeah.”

“Cho, Ginny, and who else?” Draco asked, his heart beating a bit faster.

Harry looked at him and then looked away, suddenly shy, but still smiling.

“Cedric Diggory,” he answered, glancing at Draco out of the corner of his eye as he said it.

Draco blinked. “Oh,” was all he could think to say.

Harry nodded, his gaze returned to the fire. “Hermione came across a term one summer and wrote me about it. Bisexual,” he explained, nodding slowly. “Attraction to more than one gender.”

“Oh,” Draco said again. He couldn’t stop the rush of actual _hope_ that ran through him on the disclosure of Harry’s sexuality nor could he stop the astonishment of what Harry had just told him. Of course, part of him was laughing its ass off at the _Cedric Diggory_ side of the situation. He decided to express the latter part instead.

“Potter, I can’t believe we both had a crush on the same boy,” he choked out, laughter bubbling up in his throat and slipping out when he saw Harry’s head snap up towards him, eyes wide.

“ _No_ ,” he breathed, and Draco laughed harder.

“Why in the hell did you _think_ I convinced the entire Slytherin house to root for a _Hufflepuff_?” he wheezed, and Harry just continued to look horrified.

“To spite me!” he replied, and Draco started laughing anew.

“Merlin, Potter, you don’t have to be so self-centered,” he teased, and Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “Kidding, of course.”

“Holy _shit_ ,” Harry summarized, and Draco took deep breaths to steady his breathing pattern.

“This is officially my favorite conversation I’ve ever had with you,” Draco said sincerely, nodding.

He appreciated that Harry had the decency to look touched.

 

Harry thought it was distinctly unfair that Draco had to look so damn beautiful in the firelight. He thought it was even more unfair that Draco was gay and happened to look that way in any situation. And overall, Harry thought it was a direct curse on himself that Draco was gay, and beautiful, and effectively living with Harry.

And Harry knew there wasn’t a single fucking thing he could do about it.

He laid on his bunk, staring up at the tarp ceiling and listening to Draco trying to fall asleep in the bunk on the opposite side of the tent.

“Harry?” Draco’s voice whispered, and Harry inhaled sharply.

“Yeah?”

“Well…I wanted to tell you I’m glad you told me what you told me,” Draco said, in a rush, and Harry could practically envision the boy’s blush.

He smiled to himself. “I’m glad you told me what _you_ told me,” he replied.

It was quiet for a second before Draco answered. “I am too,” finally came his voice.

“Night, Draco.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

It was a whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay!  
> So, one thing to know about me is that I sometimes cannot resist putting my own personal headcanons into my fics. One of my favorite headcanons is that Harry is bisexual (I think it makes a huge amount of sense), so surprise!  
> I've gotten a lot of comments saying that people like the fast pace of the story and especially their relationship, so you're going to continue to get that. If you'd like my further thoughts on that, comment below with questions or something.  
> The scene I'm calling the Erotic Haircut Scene actually turned out better than I thought, but if that got too weird for you, let me know.  
> I hope you liked it and look for an update soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is like a day early (I try to post every Wednesday), but it's because I'm gone all day Wednesday and Thursday so I hope you're not complaining about the early update :)

“ _Harry!_ ”

A voice, urgent and frightened, snapped Harry from the depths of sleep.

He blinked his eyes open, turning his head to the sound of the voice.

He saw Draco’s face, white and scared, and immediately sat up.

“What is it? It’s barely morning!” Harry whispered, looking around the tent anxiously for some sign of danger.

“I hear voices!” Draco replied, barely making any sound.

Harry sighed. “It’s probably just Muggles camping. Remember, these wards prevent them from hearing or seeing us. We could be running around naked screaming our heads off right in front of them and it wouldn’t make a difference.”

Draco shook his head. “I know, but—they don’t _sound_ like Muggles camping. I think I’m hearing names. Names I know.”

“Do you think it could just be you?”

A flash of anger shone in Draco’s eyes. “Potter, I am _telling you_ we are both in danger. Now get up!”

Harry pursed his lips. “There aren’t likely to be Snatchers in America, are there?” he began the question gently, but his tone turned sharp when Draco looked at him in confusion.

“Why…wouldn’t there be?” Draco asked, his brow furrowed.

“How expansive is this war?” Harry hissed, swinging his legs around the bed and hopping off, so he was standing in front of Draco.

“The Wizarding _World_ is at war, Harry,” Draco replied. “That doesn’t mean Hogwarts and the English Ministry. You-Know-Who has lots of stations in America. It’s not as intense, but Mud— _Muggle-born_ witches and wizards are disappearing all over the country.”

Harry cursed and ran for the flap of the tent, Draco right behind him.

He could see figures emerging from the trees around them, completely oblivious to the tent and wizards about forty feet in front of them. They were definitely wizards—and Harry’s heart sunk to see a big black notebook being carried under the arm of one of them, no doubt filled with names like the one Scabior had been carrying.

“They’re Snatchers,” Harry muttered darkly. “They can’t see us still, or hear us, but they’re here. We should go. As soon as they leave, we should—“

“Does someone smell smoke?”

Both of them froze as the lead Snatcher, a very tall and thin woman with sepia skin and short black hair, stopped to smell the air.

“Did you let the fire burn last night?” Harry hissed, and Draco paled.

“I—I put a Containment Charm on it, but I—I just liked the light, I’m sorry!” he whimpered, and Harry opened his mouth furiously, but stopped at the look on Draco’s face.

His eyes were huge and scared, one hand clutching Harry’s arm and the other wrapped around himself. Harry swallowed, his words changing from furious to comforting.

“It’s…it’s okay, it’s fine, Hermione did the same thing with her perfume—“

“There’s definitely been something burning here,” the woman carried on behind them.

“Someone was here last night?” a small and bald man that reminded Harry of Mundungus spoke up, looking around.

“There’s no campfire,” a blond woman in the back said. “Must have covered their tracks well.”

“Well they couldn’t have gotten far,” the first woman cut in hurriedly. “Go quickly, see if you can find more tracks. I’ll catch up in a minute, I want to see if I can find anything else.”

The rest of her group nodded and quickly ran off, the tall woman walking studiously around the perimeter of the barrier.

Once her group was out of sight, her demeanor suddenly changed completely. She looked straight at the tent, though a bit off to the side, gaze unfocused, which made Harry certain she couldn’t see them. Her rigid posture became more relaxed, and she walked right up to the barrier, reaching her hand out slightly.

“Fuck,” Draco breathed behind Harry, and Harry moved in front of him, his arm reaching around curling protectively, if not awkwardly, around him.

The woman opened her mouth to speak, and Harry reached for his wand.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said carefully, “but you need to get out of here now.”

Draco stiffened in shock and Harry’s grip on his wand loosened a bit.

 _Is she warning us?_ Harry dared to wonder, listening hard to whatever else the woman was going to say.

“There are others coming behind me,” she said, her words now rushing. “My group’s not the smartest, but you’re not always going to be that lucky. You have maybe five minutes—go now.”

With a stiff final nod, she swallowed, turned and ran in the direction her group members went, her rigid posture and evil mask back in place.

Harry let out a long breath, feeling Draco stagger away from him in relief.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he said, and Harry almost laughed at his amazement. “That was the _luckiest thing_ that has _ever_ happened to me.”

“We need to leave, though,” Harry said seriously. Draco nodded. “Pack everything as fast as you can.”

 

If Draco hadn’t seen it done, he wouldn’t have believed an entire campsite could be packed up in just five minutes. They were five scared, rushed and efficient minutes, yes, but three hundred seconds is still not a lot of time.

But then there they stood, double-checking everything and straining to hear the aforementioned voices.

“Shields down?” Draco asked finally, and Harry nodded.

He watched as the boy drew his wand, took a deep breath and waved it high in the air. As he brought it down, whispering something under his breath, Draco suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable as the protective charms lifted.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked him, jumping when they heard a faraway shout. “Quickly.”

“Amsterdam,” Draco responded, having had the idea ready in his mind. “Ready?”

Harry hesitated, then nodded, grabbing Draco’s hand, who felt the now-familiar trill in his chest as he looked down at their joined hands.

Another shout from the distance made him shake his head, clearing away any other confusing thoughts. He nodded once at Harry and Disapparated.

 

The first thing they heard was the sound of a loud horn on a nearby road, making Harry stumble on the landing in surprise.

Draco landed smoothly on the pavement, but Harry fell into him, and Draco’s arms went instinctively around his waist to catch him. Harry grasped his forearms and straightened up, his eyes levelling with Draco’s and pinning them both to the spot.

 _Merlin_ , Draco thought, blinking down into Harry’s green eyes. _I’ll never get over that._

Harry flushed deeply, but instead of pulling away, he seemed to draw minutely closer.

“Close call,” he whispered, smiling weakly.

“That does seem to be the main theme with you,” Draco responded, a similar smile gracing his lips.

“Yeah,” Harry replied simply.

Draco laughed breathily, his hands resting more solidly on the small of Harry’s back. He hoped to whatever deity he knew didn’t exist that Harry couldn’t hear his heart pounding, or his blood rushing or his nerves singing as he watched the boy smile at him like that. He hoped Harry didn’t pull away any more, and he even hoped, for a wild moment, that Harry felt like that too.

Just as he was about to say something, _anything_ , really, a loud voice broke the silence.

“GET IT OFF THE STREETS, BOYS!”

Harry jumped backwards at the yell, leaving Draco suddenly cold and shaken behind him.

A large, burly man passing the alleyway they had landed in shook his head at them and continued on his way, leaving the boys alone again.

Draco was breathing heavily, and he realized he had been just short of holding his breath the entire time they’d been here.

Harry wasn’t meeting his gaze, something Draco thought he’d always find frustrating now, and still had the deep burgundy color in his cheeks.

“So,” Harry said, gesturing around them, “this is Amsterdam?”

“This is a part of it,” Draco said, quite obviously, and he cringed inwardly.

Harry laughed. “Which part?”

“Trevor Street. Well, the alley behind it. Trevor Street is hidden from Muggles the same way Hogwarts and Diagon Alley and the World Cup Stadium was. It’s a private residence,” Draco explained, motioning for Harry to follow him to the end of the alley.

Draco heard Harry’s footsteps stop abruptly, and he turned around.

Harry was looking at him apprehensively. “We’re staying with people? _Your_ people?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Potter, seriously. I’m not even close to that thick. Just come with me, I’ll explain inside.”

Harry nodded, still looking wary, and walked up to Draco’s side. They both faced the dirty expanse of white concrete, and Draco checked over his shoulder for anyone wandering around near them.

He took out his wand and placed it gently on the wall.

“Harry,” he said suddenly, as the wall started to shift and look decidedly less solid, “hold on to me. I forgot about this part.”

Harry, seemingly alarmed, wrapped his arm through Draco’s.

“What p—?”

Harry’s question was cut off as the wall suddenly pulled them through, none too kindly.

The concrete was like hardening butter as they were sucked through it, and Draco shut his eyes, the sensation only slightly better but much more prolonged than Apparation.

It spit them out, finally, in a dark and overgrown garden pathway. Harry was clinging still to Draco, looking thoroughly violated.

“What the _hell_?” he gasped, and Draco laughed despite himself.

“The magic’s a bit off, it hasn’t been refreshed in years. It used to be much more comfortable.”

Harry let out another breath and looked around. Draco watched him for a second before doing the same.

The gothic exterior of the house reminded Draco vaguely of his own home, though not anywhere near as extravagant or severe. Their house was lighter, not the oil black the Manor seemed to resemble at times, but rather a simple gray stone. The windows were huge and looked bereft of curtains, and Draco realized the family probably would have taken them with them when they left all those years ago.

“Is this another one of your homes? Because we shouldn’t be here if it is,” Harry said, his eyes locked on the mansion.

“No. I never lived here. In fact, I’ve only ever been here once before.”

Harry looked at him, puzzled, and Draco motioned for him to follow. Harry obliged, and they walked in silence up to the front door of the house.

Draco doubted very much they could just walk in, and he was proven right when he found he couldn’t even touch the door handle without coming into contact with a magical barrier.

“I need a password,” Draco said, scanning the door. He remembered what it _used_ to be, but he was fairly certain they would have changed it in the three years since it had last been assigned.

“Don’t ask me,” Harry muttered, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“Oh, Potter, shut up.”

Draco looked the door up and down once more before stepping back. He cleared his throat.

 _“Zuiver._ ” Draco tried, and cursed silently when the barrier remained, the door still tightly sealed.

“What was that?” Harry asked.                       

“The password it used to be. That’s ‘pure’ in Dutch.” Draco explained, thinking hard.

“Oh!” he exclaimed suddenly, a smile breaking out on his face. “It’s their family name, it has to be! _Cornelissen!_ ”

He grinned wider as he heard a faint _whoosh_ , and the click of a lock turning. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the freed handle, and, throwing an impromptu wink over his shoulder at a surprised Harry because _why not_ , turned it and opened the door.

It was both exactly as Draco remembered and completely different, in that the same ancient yet inviting stone structure all around them still stood as it did three years ago, but it was utterly devoid of anything that once qualified it as belonging to the Cornelissens.

“Wow,” Harry breathed, stepping in beside Draco and casting his gaze all around the stone hallway. “This isn’t anything like Hogwarts…”

Draco laughed at that, feeling just a bit delighted at Harry’s wide-eyed wonder. “Were you expecting it to be?”

Harry shrugged and blushed, evidently a bit embarrassed. “I mean, it’s a big stone building…”

Draco laughed some more, and Harry laughed along with him, the sound bouncing off of the walls of the hallway.

“It’s gorgeous,” Harry added quietly. “How do you know this place?”

Draco looked at him sideways, pursing his lips.

“I just want to know,” Harry reassured him, seeing the hesitation on Draco’s face.

Draco nodded. “It was a few months after the Blaise incident. Father had a…well, a sort of business transaction with a family in Amsterdam. I know now it was him recruiting them—they stayed with us for two weeks the summer before sixth year. The family—the Cornelissens—were not nearly as…extreme in their thinking. They were proud of their pureblood heritage, but weren’t willing to join a war, or submit themselves over to You-Know-Who.”

“Did your families get along, then?” Harry asked, and Draco could see him becoming worried.

“Yeah, I think so. We were invited to stay with them anytime, but that could have just been customary. My parents were never here, I don’t think.” He paused, glancing again at Harry. “I was.”

Harry nodded, seemingly unsurprised. “Why?”

“They had a son. My age, I think—we were only a few months apart. We were—well, we weren’t exactly _involved_ , we just—I don't know, what else were you going to do cooped up in a dark Manor for a week while your fathers handled politics downstairs?” Draco snorted to himself, smiling faintly at the memory of Alexander sighing and flopping down on his couch, eyeing Draco pointedly as he complained.

 _“I’m bored, Draco. Aren’t you?”_ he used to say, and Draco would always laugh.

Harry looked as though he had just been slapped in the face.

“What?” Draco asked, confused.

“You brought me…to your _ex-boyfriend’s house?!_ ” he hissed, and Draco stepped back in shock.

“I—well, I mean, we were more friends than—you know, we weren’t together.”

“Still!” Harry exclaimed, wide-eyed. “You were together enough to live with him here!”

“It was a _weekend_! It was technically still only part of the recruitment mission, Father knew we were close—of course, he didn’t know exactly _how_ close, but—“

“Gah!” Harry gasped out, covering his ears with his hands.

“Why the hell do you care?” Draco asked, completely bemused.

“Because I…I don’t want to know about that!” Harry stammered, looking as confused as Draco felt.

Draco continued to stare at him. “Why?”

“I don’t know!”

“I know it’s not a homophobia issue…for obvious reasons,” he said slowly, watching Harry flush slightly. “So why _do_ you care?”

Harry shrugged, staring at the ground.

Draco examined Harry further, watching the boy turn steadily redder with each pressing moment of silence. Then it hit him—and he grinned, feeling suddenly devious.

“Harry,” he asked, his voice lowering, and Harry’s head snapped up at the sound of his tone. “Are you a virgin?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “ _What?_ ”

“Are you a virgin?” Draco repeated, matter-of-factly, taking delight in deliberately messing with Harry.

Harry just glared at him.

“You _are!_ ” Draco crowed, his grin returning. “Of course the Golden Boy is, in fact, pure as gold. You were actually _scandalized_ by my story, weren’t you?”

Harry said nothing.

“I can't believe I’m helping The Virgin Harry save the world,” Draco continued, shaking his head in dismay.

“Why, are you offering to do something about it?” Harry retorted hotly, his eyes suddenly flashing and Draco froze.

“I—“ he began, but then just stopped, staring at Harry, slightly shell-shocked.

”Thought so,” Harry muttered, a bit triumphantly, a bit something else, and moved to side-step Draco.

Seized with a sudden impulse to keep Harry there with him, Draco reached out and grabbed Harry’s arm, pulling him closer before his brain caught up with his actions.

He gazed intently down into Harry’s eyes, which were enlarged with shock and suspension. The green drilled into his own eyes, riddled with questions and some other driving force.

“What are you doing?” Harry whispered, and Draco loosened his grip, slowly realizing what was happening

“I don’t know,” he answered, “I don’t…”

Harry stayed perfectly still. “You don’t know?”

Draco shook his head, dropping Harry’s arm and stepping back.              

The silence that consumed both of them then was unbearable, and Draco was telling himself to walk away from this now.

_This is turning into something you weren’t prepared for. Turn back. Turn back or go forward._

“I think I should look around,” he said finally, and Harry blinked at him, apparently a bit bewildered.

“Good idea,” he responded, and Draco couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. He watched him walk away, his footsteps echoing all the way.

When he was gone, Draco slumped against the nearest wall, letting out a huge breath sagging against the light grey stones.

He was insane, he knew that. Insane with this sudden wanting, insane with the fact that it consumed him so completely for a second. Insane for wanting to stop Harry again and shove him against the nearest wall, right where Draco was leaning at that moment.

And he was, above all, insane for letting him walk away.

Draco shook his head.

Things were getting…messy. Draco never liked messy. He started to re-visit his exact priorities, trying to clear his head.

He had decided first off that Harry, being alive and being safe, was The Most Important Thing.

The Second Most Important Thing, of course, was now his own _personal_ problem involving Harry—namely, whatever it was that made him want to snog him senseless every time Harry looked at him.

And Harry looked at him a lot.

And that, there, was The Third Most Important Thing: how _Harry_ felt about all this. Even though Draco was going to be the only other person Harry would even see until Gringotts— _oh fuck, and that’s The Fourth Most Important Thing_ —this could all be in Draco’s head.

Because, of course, it had been established already that Draco was well and truly insane.

Ultimately, it was The Most Important Thing ( _certainly_ not any of the others) that drove Draco to look for Harry.

Strange house, strange place—he shouldn’t be alone.

He probably shouldn’t be with Draco at the moment, either, but it was better than no one.

 

He found Harry after some ten minutes of searching, staring aimlessly out of one of the wide windows on the top floor. His back was turned, motionless and relaxed. He didn’t seem to hear Draco come in, appearing to be lost in some train of thought. Draco made no move to break the spell, longing to know what Harry was thinking about.

Finally, after it had suddenly occurred to him how creepy he was being, he cleared his throat, somewhat awkwardly, and Harry whirled around.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked, and Draco shrugged.

“Just a second,” he lied, and Harry nodded, perhaps satisfied.

“Right,” Harry said. “I was just thinking about…what to do next.”

“You mean regarding the Horcruxes?” Draco asked, a feeling of dread creeping into his stomach.

Harry hesitated. “Yes,” he answered carefully. “I’ve decided two things.”

“Okay,” Draco said slowly. “What are they?”

“One,” Harry said, looking back out the window again, “we need to get into your Aunt’s vault.”

“Oh,” Draco replied, a bit weakly. _Dear Merlin, we're going to die,_ he thought, staring forlornly at Harry’s back.

“Two,” Harry continued, turning to face him again, gazing directly into Draco’s eyes, “ _you_ are too much of a distraction.”

Draco blinked, taking a step back in bewilderment. His mind began swirling, trying to decipher what Harry meant.

_Could he mean…_

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, because he felt like it was maybe something he should apologize for.

Harry snorted. “Don’t worry about that right now anyway.”

“Okay,” Draco replied, still at a loss for helpful responses. He didn’t like that, not knowing what to say. Especially not to Harry.

“I need to contact Ron,” Harry said suddenly, and Draco was thrown yet again.

“Well, that’s a nice idea and all—very thoughtful—but I hope you realize why that’s largely impossible,” Draco responded, a hint of pleading creeping into his tone as he saw the determined look on Harry’s face.

“Not with a Patronus charm,” Harry replied, folding his arms.

“ _Merlin_ , Harry—you have the most recognizable patronus in the world! It’s one of your identifiers! Every Death Eater knows to look for a stag patronus. You _cannot_ send your patronus.” Draco said firmly, hoping he was shutting down whatever ridiculous idea was forming in Harry’s mind.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I know _I_ can’t send one,” he explained, “but _you_ can. No one knows yours.”

Draco sighed, impatient. “That’s because I don’t _have_ one.”

Harry shook his head. “Not true. Everyone _has_ one, I think, you just don’t know how to bring it out.”

“How philosophical of you,” Draco deadpanned.

“I’m going to teach you how to cast the Patronus Charm,” Harry announced, as if he hadn’t heard Draco’s comment.

Draco blinked. “What, right now?”

“No. Tonight. We need food right now,” Harry replied, crossing the room and brushing past Draco on his way out.

“That might be problem,” Draco stated, following Harry wherever he was going.

Harry looked at him curiously. “We’re in the middle of a city,” he said, as if he was being incredibly obvious. “Surely there’s a market of some kind?”

“That’s very dangerous,” Draco warned, and Harry looked at him derisively.

“What parts of our life are safe?” he said, lip curling.

Draco watched him a bit cautiously, not saying anything.

Harry stared at the floor.

“Are you mad at me, Harry?” Draco asked quietly, feeling small all of a sudden.

“No.” Harry answered quickly, still watching the wooden floorboards.

“Are you sure?”

“No,” Harry replied, missing a beat. “No, not really.”

Draco laughed without humor, a short huff of incredulity and ran his hand through his hair. “Well for fuck’s sake, Harry, what do you want from me?”

“I don't know!” Harry exclaimed, throwing his hands up in front of him. “What do you want from _me_?”

Draco’s mouth popped open, but he said nothing, at a total loss.

“Exactly!” Harry continued, gesturing at Draco’s expression. “I didn't fucking sign up for _this_! At least you made some sort of _decision_ here, everything just sort of _happened_ for me!”

Draco’s lost expression changed quickly to one of fury. “I should have just left you back at the Manor, then? To _die_?” he hissed, eyes narrowed, and his heart hardened as Harry glared at him.

“Yeah, maybe. Because I can’t _deal_ with…with _this_ right now!”

“Deal with _what_?!” Draco practically shouted back this time, partly because he was utterly lost as to what Harry was talking about partly because he was dreading the answer.

“WITH YOU!” Harry almost screamed, eyes wide and filled with an emerald fire that would have been overwhelming if it wasn’t trying to break Draco in two.

Draco stepped back, his lips parted in shock and hurt. He felt a wave of humiliation rush through him as Harry’s words finally resonated.

Harry no longer wanted him there.

Perhaps he was appreciative at first, grateful even, but of course Draco had fucked it up. He fucked it up because was Draco Malfoy, and fuck everything he’s ever stood for if he’s done _anything_ right in his entire life.

And Harry had seen that. Harry had seen _him_ , for the first time, the real _him,_ and he had fucked it up.

Not even the one good thing Draco thought he’d ever done—rescuing Harry Potter, redeeming himself, was apparently any good at all.

Or at least, it wasn’t good enough for Harry.

“Fine,” Draco said finally. “Okay. I’m sorry. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

He _was_ sorry—but something in him had shut down—and he found himself only vaguely sorry as the rest of him collapsed somewhere near the floor, leaving him feeling familiar feeling of an empty shell, fear settling in around the edges of body. It was a feeling he didn’t remember with this degree of intensity, but he remembered it, had felt it for two years since taking the god-forsaken Mark, before Harry had come back.

The fire in Harry’s eyes dimmed a bit, and he seemed to deflate upon seeing Draco’s reaction. “Look,” he sighed, and waited for Draco to say something.

But Draco no longer cared.

“I’m going to the store,” he said, and Harry’s lips parted in surprise. “For you. I’ll make you breakfast, to say sorry, we can discuss what’s necessary, and then I’ll go.”

Harry blinked, staring at Draco in utter confusion.

Draco looked at him for a long moment before quite suddenly Disapparating, his name the last thing he heard from Harry’s mouth.

 

“Draco!” Harry cried, surging forward as the boy Disapparated.

He stopped when he realized Draco had gone, and immediately, a cold panic gripped him, twining itself around his veins and icing through his heart.

He breathed deeply, trying to distill his fears.

He was being ridiculous, wasn’t he? Draco had said he was going to the store, and then he was coming back. Harry had no idea where the store even was—all he could do now was wait. Harry could yell at him for scaring him half to death then, and then apologize, and explain what the _fuck_ he meant when he said what he did.

Well, as soon as he figured that out for himself, that is.

He had said, quite plainly, that he couldn’t deal with Draco. Of course, that probably had a wildly different meaning to Draco than it did to Harry.

Draco probably thought he meant Harry no longer wanted him there—and in a way, he supposed, that was sort of true. He didn’t want this completely unexpected and constant distraction from his job of literally saving the world, and he especially didn’t want it in the form of Draco Malfoy.

Because while Harry never thought he’d even have any inkling of affection or protectiveness or _desire_ for Draco, the blond-haired, grey-eyed boy was slowly consuming his thoughts.

Which, considering his history with shared thoughts, was decidedly _not_ okay.

Voldemort, however, had been worryingly quiet since he and Draco had escaped from the Manor. He had had no visions, feelings, stray thoughts or even vague suspicions as to what he was doing.

Which made Harry very, very scared.

And, on the other hand, so did Draco.

So did this new and strange tension between them, the looks they’d give each other and the things they’d accidentally say, and the most terrifying thing about it all was the fact that if Harry had just wanted, for lack of better words, to _get off_ , this wouldn’t be anything resembling a problem. Harry had been suppressing that side of him ever since it reared its ugly head around fourth year, mainly due to the fact that he had neither the time nor the lifestyle to even consider worrying about anything like that. He had long since trained his mind and body to know that there was a _time_ and a _place_.

No, this wasn’t Harry’s “other brain” talking. This was more of the warmth Harry felt whenever Draco smiled, whether at him or the sky or the ground or the fucking oxygen around him. It was more of the thrill that went through him whenever Draco met his gaze, like the rush of the only whiskey Harry had ever tasted, running through his veins like it was his blood.

It had been three days since the Manor and seven years since Madam Malkin’s robe shop, and Harry felt every hour every time he looked at Draco.

And if that wasn’t a bad sign, Harry didn’t know what was.

Because even if there was no war, even if they killed Voldemort _tomorrow_ , if he waltzed his arse into their new hallway and dropped dead at Harry’s feet, he and Draco would have a whole other war to wage, even more alone than they are now. No one would be on his side save Harry. A public relationship concerning The Chosen One and an ex-Death Eater was a war that they couldn’t win.

Of course, that didn’t stop his heart from beating faster every time he thought about Draco. Didn’t stop him from—God help him—falling for the git.

 _Bastard_.

He didn't sign up for this.

That last sentiment, unfortunately, was the only thing he seemed to have gotten across to Draco.

And he had scared him away—something Harry could hopefully undo when he returned—

Harry jumped up, fear slamming into him again as a horrible thought occurred to him.

 _Unless you won’t see him again_ , he thought, panicking, breath coming faster. _Unless he’s gone, unless he never intended to come back_.

“FUCK!” Harry yelled, kicking the nearest wall and trying to slow down his thoughts.

If he had let Draco go, he wouldn’t last a single _day_. Draco could be dead in hours.

Harry Disapparated down to the door, making sure his wand was in his pocket and bursting through onto the front porch. He ran down the lawn, his throat constricting at the thought of what he had potentially had just done.

 _Draco, fuck, I’m sorry,_ he thought desperately, though he knew it would do no good.

He came to the plaster wall that separated the residence from the rest of the world and hesitated for a second, unsure of what to do. He cautiously put his hand up to it, and was thankfully accepted into the wall with an unwelcome stretching sensation. He was spit back out on the other side of the same alley, and took off running again.

He was in Muggle Amsterdam, and he registered dimly that he wouldn’t be recognized here. Lucky, he was.

He ran down the bright streets filled with happy, busy or distracted walkers, pushing past all of them.

He had no idea where he was going.

Suddenly, he caught sight of a man standing next to a stop sign, casually reading a newspaper. Harry raced up to him.

“Sir,” he gasped out, breathless from his sprinting, “can you please tell me where the nearest grocery store is?”

The man blinked, alarmed. “Yeah,” he said, blinking a few more times. “Two blocks down the road that way.” He pointed down the road, and Harry was filled with temporary relief.

“Thank you!” Harry called over his shoulder as he took off again, running in the direction the man had pointed.

He found it exactly where it was supposed to be, and he raced inside the bright glass double doors.

Pausing, he whirled around in all directions, looking for a platinum blond head among the crowd of shoppers.

He deliberated calling his name, but his better judgment suppressed that urge.

 _Breakfast_ , he remembered faintly, and quickly found the section with eggs.

He tried to look calm and composed as he speed-walked among the grocery-goers, but he suspected he was rather failing in that endeavor based on the looks he was getting.

When he didn’t see Draco among the eggs, he began to panic again, fear tightening in chest.

He took to racing among the aisles, no longer caring what the other people thought of him. With each aisle containing no Draco, he felt the desperation in him rise to new heights. He felt like screaming, or hitting something, or even crying in fear and frustration. He ran to the last aisle, close to hysterics, when finally, _finally_ , he caught sight of a tall and slim figure with white blond hair standing in the middle of the cereal section, head bowed and hands pressed to his temples.

 _He’s here, right there, he’s safe—thank God, thank Merlin, thank the whole fucking Mount Olympus,_ Harry thought, nearly collapsing in relief.

“Draco!” he cried for the second time that day, his voice breathless, wavering and high.

Draco’s head snapped up, and Harry was immediately pierced with wide, wounded grey eyes.

“ _Harry_?” Draco breathed, astounded, and Harry flew up to him.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Harry almost sobbed, practically falling into the boy.

Draco’s arms came around him and Harry wrapped his own around Draco’s ribcage, his head burrowed into Draco’s shoulder.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Draco asked, not moving to pull away. “I told you very plainly I was coming back, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t believe you,” Harry sighed, finally relaxing. “I thought you were just going to leave and get a head start on me, or give me an excuse not to look for you, or something. God, Draco, I am _so sorry_. Everything I said, I didn’t mean anything you think I did, I’m _so sorry_.”

He was completely rambling now, but he didn’t care, he just hugged Draco tighter as the words tumbled out of his mouth, wishing Draco would relax a bit.

Draco placed his hands on Harry’s waist and pulled away a little bit, Harry’s head raising to meet his gaze.

“You are _ridiculous_ ,” he said, his eyes still wide as dinner plates, but Harry was comforted by the slight small that curved his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again.

 “It’s okay,” Draco murmured, his eyes turning the color of melted silver. “We can talk about whatever at the house.”

Harry nodded, dazed. “I’m still holding you to that breakfast promise,” he managed, and reveled in the sound of Draco’s laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I have a lot of bullet points here.
> 
> 1\. If you are Dutch (or in Amsterdam), and you are reading this, I'm sorry. I have no knowledge of anything Dutch--I googled "Dutch family names" and used Google Translate for the first password Draco tries.  
> 2\. The house I described is based off of Woodchester Mansion in England. It was a mansion, slightly gothic style, that was like left unfinished for some reason. Construction was halted and it was never finished--it's now open to tours and stuff. That's all I know about it, really.  
> 3\. More relationship development! Again, if you don't like the fast pace...you probably shouldn't read the rest of it!  
> As always--leave me a comment! I appreciate all comments!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! 2k15!!!!!  
> (Also, I turned 16 yesterday so yay for me)
> 
> So this update is again a bit early (I hope no one complains), but the reason for it is that I am back in school and do not have the day to time updates (and this website doesn't have any sort of queue).  
> I'm releasing it now because I fear I won't be able to during school tomorrow or it'll be even later after school tomorrow.  
> I hope you enjoy!

Embarrassing breakdown aside, Harry was infinitely glad he had gone after Draco.

These pancakes were _amazing_.

“Didn’t you have a house elf for your entire life? Where the hell did you learn to cook?” Harry asked, amazed, and on his third pancake.

“Okay, well, first of all—I literally just added water and eggs to pancake mix and cooked it. Second, I like to cook. The house elf we got after Dobby taught me when father was away.” Draco added the last part a little wistfully.

“Oh,” Harry said simply.

“So,” Draco said casually, leaning back in his chair. “Why _did_ you come running into the grocery store like you thought all of your friends were about to die?”

Harry swallowed. He was suddenly no longer hungry, and he didn’t suspect the amount of pancakes he had consumed had anything to do with that. There was a churning in his stomach and his heart sped up. Was Draco trying to use pancakes to manipulate him?

 _Bastard_.

“Well,” Harry said slowly, “It kind of…occurred to me that you might not have been telling the truth. About coming back. I thought…I thought you might have just left me.”

“Wasn’t that…” Draco paused, eyes downcast and voice quieter. “Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

Harry sighed. They were doing this now.

“No,” he replied firmly. “It wasn’t.”

“You said—“

“I didn’t explain very well,” Harry interjected, cutting off Draco’s protest. “You were…you _are_ …a distraction. To me. And what we’re trying to do.”

“But _why_ ,” Draco whispered, pleading. “What did I _do_?”

Harry held his gaze, unwavering. “I don’t know,” he whispered back, shaking his head slowly. “I really don’t.”

“Was it…was it that thing? In the hallway? Did I make you…uncomfortable?” Draco was suddenly stiff and tensed, dropping Harry’s gaze.

“This isn’t you, Draco,” Harry assured, then stopped.

 _Well…yes it is,_ he thought.

“I mean,” he amended, “it is you, but it’s not… _you_. Not… _on_ you.”

Draco blinked. “What are you saying, Harry?”

Harry opened his mouth.

And then there was a knock at the door.

Both boys froze, Harry’s heart stuttering in his chest.

That was impossible. That _was_ impossible, right? They’d have to be a wizard to get past the wall—and from what Draco had explained on their way back, a wizard with family permission, which Harry was automatically granted by arriving with Draco, and then they’d have to have the password to even knock on the door.

It was impossible.

But then, they knocked again.

“Who is it?” Harry hissed, and Draco stared back at him, helpless.

“It _couldn’t_ be them,” he whispered, eyes wide with fear. “It couldn’t!”

They heard the door open.

Draco barely concealed a gasp and Harry got quickly and silently to his feet, drawing his wand.

Just then, something akin to an invisible rippling wave rolled over both of them; it wasn’t altogether unpleasant, but Harry felt a sinking in his stomach as he recognized the spell immediately.

“They know we’re here,” he breathed, and Draco rose to his feet as well, eyes on the doorway behind Harry and hand on his wand.

“Hello?” a voice called, cautiously, the reverberations ringing out in the piercing silence.

Draco’s eyes got still wider, and his mouth opened in shock. He said nothing, though, and Harry realized who it was with a strange sensation in his chest.

“Draco Malfoy?” the same voice called again, and no threat could be detected. “It’s just me, it’s Alexander.”

Draco moved away from the table, and Harry tried to plead with his eyes for him to stay and be silent.

Hesitantly, Draco raised his wand, and cast a near-silent revealing charm.

“It’s just him,” Draco affirmed, still a whisper.

“No,” Harry whispered back, but Draco looked at him apologetically.

“Draco?” the voice called again, more hopeful this time.

“Alexander.” Draco answered, and his voice was obviously loud in the previously quiet room.

Almost immediately, they heard footsteps on the stairs, and Harry ran from the room. He hid behind the nearest doorway, pressing himself flat against the wall.

“Draco Malfoy, Jesus Christ.” Harry heard the same voice speak, and he was irritated that he couldn’t put an image to it.

Draco laughed, but Harry took some weird delight in hearing it strained and wary. “The one and the same.”

“I never really thought I’d see you again.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“When you broke the barrier the first time, our family was notified. It’s part of the magic. You’re lucky I was the only one home when we got the sign.”

“That is lucky.”

My parents don’t know I’m here.” Alexander said, almost like he expected thanks.

“I’m very appreciative of you for coming alone,” Draco obliged.

“Well, all of that begs the question, of course, of what the hell are _you_ doing here?” Alexander asked, sounding a bit befuddled at the situation at hand.

“I don’t know if I can tell you that,” Draco answered evenly, and Harry smirked despite himself.

“You know my family’s place in this war,” Alexander answered readily. “We are neutral, way away from the thick of the mess for a reason. Me giving up your location or anything about your situation wouldn’t do anything but bring my family and I into things we don’t want to get into.”

Draco was silent.

“Draco, you know I have always cared for you,” Alexander continued, in a much softer voice.

Harry ground his teeth.

“I needed this as a safehouse,” Draco told him finally.

“Who are you here with?”

Draco was silent again.

“I know there’s someone else here, I think I should know _who_ ,” pressed Alexander.

Draco laughed shortly. “You wouldn't like the answer.”

Alexander laughed too, with much more humor than Draco. “I bet you could _make_ me like it,” he said, voice dropping low and that was quite enough of _that_.

Harry pushed himself off of the wall and stepped decisively into the doorway, and both boys’ heads snapped to the movement.

Draco’s eyes closed as Alexander’s widened to the size of golf balls, his mouth falling open.

“Sorry, you probably weren’t expecting me,” Harry said, feeling bold, and for some reason, unquestionably irritated.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Draco fight back a smile.

Alexander continued to gape at him for a second before wheeling around to face Draco again.

“You, using my old house, I can deal with,” he said, obviously trying to keep his composure, “but _Harry Potter_? Are you _fucking kidding_? How the hell did this even _happen_?”

“He rescued me from Malfoy Manor,” Harry challenged, voice firm. Alexander stared at him again in astonishment.

“No, he didn’t.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Less than two years ago, Draco was recruiting me and my family to join You-Know-Who’s side in the upcoming war,” Alexander said slowly, doubt clouding his eyes, “and you’re telling me…what, you just turned rebel? Overnight?”

“The details don’t matter,” Draco snapped, and both Alexander and Harry looked at him surprise. “What matters is the situation we’re in right now.”

Alexander sighed. “I’m not sure what you want me to do,” he said, shrugging.

“I want you to go back home,” Draco replied firmly, “and pretend like you don't know we’re here.”

Alexander looked at him for a long time before saying anything, and Draco looked back. Harry’s eyes flitted in between the two of them, the feeling of irritation rising in heat inside of his chest.

“I think I need to speak to you,” Alexander said finally, “in _private_ ,” he added pointedly, his eyes darting to Harry before swinging back to Draco.

Draco chewed on his lip, eyeing Harry.

Harry wanted to protest, to make up some claim about Draco’s safety, but he didn’t actually think Draco was in any danger. He simply didn’t want Draco alone with Alexander, his past flame.

With a meaningful glance at Draco, Harry nodded stiffly. His eyes narrowed and the hot prickle of irritation rising into a blue flame in his chest as he saw Alexander grab Draco gently by the arm and lead him out of the kitchen.

As soon as they were gone, Harry collapsed into a chair, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples.

 _Fuck it all_.

 

Draco jumped as he felt Alexander’s fingers wrap around his forearm and pull him out of the kitchen. He wanted to look back at Harry one more time, whose extremely annoyed expression would have been funny if they weren’t in such a serious situation.

He was faintly alarmed when he recognized the path Alexander was leading him down, but let him pull him to where Alexander’s bedroom used to be.

When they arrived, Alexander shut the door, something Draco thought to be rather unnecessary.

“Now that we’re actually away from him,” Alexander began, and Draco’s insides twisted with anxiety, “maybe you’d like to tell me _why_ or _how_ you evidently rescued Harry Potter and decided to backpack across Europe with him?”

“Uh,” Draco said, uncharacteristically. Alexander seemed to notice the difference as well, and raised his eyebrows.

“Have you been…having some sort of torrid love affair or something?”

Draco turned red. “No!” he spluttered, “That's—no.”

“ _Why_ , then?”

Draco scratched his head, realizing how much he was resembling Crabbe and Goyle.

 _Good fucking question_ , he thought to himself.

“Was I supposed to just watch him die?” Draco asked quietly, and Alexander scoffed.

“Actually, Draco, I think that's exactly what you were supposed to do,” he said, disbelievingly.

“Well, it wasn’t going to happen,” Draco snapped. “I wasn’t—I didn’t want that to happen.”

Alexander sighed. “Draco, you weren’t in love with him two years ago.”

“I’m not in love with him now!” Draco protested, not even sure how to handle this conversation.

“You fucking must be!” Alexander exclaimed. “You don't just risk literally your entire life for a boy you’re mildly concerned with. Or even relatively affectionate about. It’s not something you do for the boy you have a crush on. It’s something you do for someone who means more to you than whatever your life means to you.”

Draco had no counter to this.

_He’s right, isn’t he?_

Alexander seemed to take his silence for a reluctant admission.

“I’m not going to give you two up,” he said, and Draco’s eyes snapped up to his.

“I won’t protect you either,” he added, “I’m just going to…pretend you’re not here. Pretend I never knew. No one comes looking for us—I’m fairly sure you two will be just as safe here as anywhere.”

Relief surged through Draco, and he nodded fervently.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, and Alexander nodded in response.

“Don’t die in this mess of a war, Draco.” Alexander said, a hint of a plea in his eyes.

Draco was silent for a second.

“I’ll live and I’ll die for Harry Potter,” he said finally. “Not this messy war.”

Alexander blinked in surprise, but quickly composed himself. He nodded once more, a cursory goodbye, and Disapparated.

 

With Alexander finally gone, Draco exited the room and walked quickly back to the kitchen.

He saw Harry at the kitchen window, his back turned, just like the first time Draco had walked in on him like this.

This time, though, Harry turned at the sound of Draco entered and when Draco saw his face, he stopped dead in tracks.

There was a roaring fire in his eyes, blazing almost dangerously Draco’s way. The green was stronger than Draco had ever seen it, but it was not a fire of anger, or even heroism. There was something else burning in those irises, in the way he held himself and the way he stared at Draco.

He saw determination, and he saw desire.

His pulse sped up.

“Harry—“ he began, but Harry interrupted, voice low and quite different than Draco had ever heard it.

“Is he gone?”

Draco blinked.

Alexander. Right. That happened.

“Yes,” he answered. “Harry—“

Harry was on him in an instant, crossing the room quickly and walking Draco back against the doorway.

Draco’s entire system flooded with shock and he opened his mouth to say something—he wasn’t sure what—but he couldn’t get a single syllable out before Harry Potter leaned down and actually, really, completely _kissed_ him.

_Holy mother of Jesus CHRIST._

And of course, it wasn’t by any means gentle, or sweet, or anything that Draco would have imagined kissing Harry would be like.

It was insistent, demanding, hard, and _hot_.

Draco’s rational thought gladly abandoned him as he twisted a hand in Harry’s hair, his eyes falling shut and Harry seemed to take this as an incentive and curled an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him away from the wall and pressing him more into Harry’s body.

He inadvertently let out a soft moan as Harry slipped his tongue into Draco’s mouth, making him shiver against the other boy. Draco entagled his tongue with Harry’s, grasping at him blindly to try and get as close as possible.

He grabbed Harry’s hip and the brunet stuttered a bit, gasping into Draco’s mouth as Draco grinded his hips against him.

Harry’s fingers, still on his back, slipped under the hem of his shirt and he trailed the cool skin of his fingertips over Draco’s bare back, making goosebumbs rise on his skin and sending a thrill of sparking electricity through his nervous system. Draco’s other hand moved from Harry’s hip to his neck and he ran his fingers down the skin there, bringing them yet closer and trying to blindly feel every inch of the boy in front of him.

His heart was still pounding, his body in an overwhelming state of shock and longing, and he hadn’t felt this since he was fourteen.

And even that hadn’t been the same. That had been hesitant, and exploratory, and foolishly hopeful.

This… _this_ was rogue and desperate and it was beyond Harry’s obvious jealousy—it was beyond the both of them.

It was the penultimate of their relationship, it seemed, of their all-or-nothing dynamic. Less than a week really _together_ , talking and _knowing_ , and they were lighting each other on fire in a way neither of them could have predicted.

And as Harry pulled away finally, completely out of breath and eyes full of Draco, he only confirmed this thought.

They stared into each other’s eyes, winded and undone, drowning suddenly in the extremity of their situation.

 _I could lose him tomorrow,_ Draco thought, the wave of alarm and fear and raw, raw feeling rushing through his entire being as he exhaled shakily and wrapped both arms around Harry’s waist, simply holding him there.

“I know,” Harry breathed, looking slightly amazed with Draco for whatever reason. “I’m sorry.”

Draco shook his head, bringing one hand up to cup Harry’s jaw, leaning forward to kiss him gently.

Harry obliged, tightening his hold on Draco. This kiss had lost the fire and explosion of the first, and as they kissed each other and erased the tension they had been carrying in both of their bodies, they pretended unconditionally that nothing else in the world existed.

And it was a bad idea, really completely idiotic, and it was far from perfect. But it was their luxury.

 

The rest of the day passed in relative silence, as if they were both in a quiet awe of what had happened. Time passed with thoughts and a fair amount of kissing, though never was it as heated and rough as it had initially been.

Harry was the one to start an actual conversation, sometime in the evening, both of them lying together on top of a couch they had transfigured in the middle of a previous drawing room.

“I wasn’t kidding about the Patronus Charm, you know,” he said casually, and Draco twisted his neck around to face the boy lying behind him.

“I know you weren’t,” Draco replied doubtfully, “but I don’t think I can do it.”

“Why not?” Harry immediately challenged. “I taught a room full of students to do it two years ago, I’m sure I could teach you.”

“I’m not doubting _your_ abilities, Harry, I’m doubting _mine_.” Draco admitted, sighing. “I don’t think I’ll be able to produce one, considering.”

“Considering what, all the shit you’ve done?” Harry asked bluntly, and Draco’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Well, yes,” he answered. “It’s a valid concern!”

Harry scrutinized him for a minute before nudging him to stand up.

“I think you’re being ridiculous,” Harry announced, as he watched Draco rise from the couch, “and I’m going to teach you anyway.”

“Saint Potter,” Draco teased quietly, no malice behind his words. He smiled up at Harry, who looked at him curiously for a moment before grinning and pulling Draco by the arm back into him, kissing him quickly and sweetly before bounding off, still pulling Draco along.

 

“The thing about the Patronus Charm,” Harry said, standing in front of Draco in the middle of a large empty room, “is that it’s rooted primarily in concentration and intense emotion.”

“Perfect,” Draco muttered, and Harry ignored him.

“That’s why people have agreed on the method of memory to provide the necessary power to cast it,” he continued. “Remus told me to think about the happiest memory I had. It can’t just be anything, though—it has to literally be the most intense _positive_ emotion you can get, to counteract the negativity of the evil the charm is designed to counteract.”

Draco nodded, though his feeling of doubt was beginning to return.

“What was your memory?” he asked, and Harry smiled, perhaps unconsciously.

“Ron and Hermione,” he replied. “Just them. Their faces, I think.”

Draco was surprised. He had never really understood the friendship between the trio, never really understood just how tight their bonds were. He knew, on the surface of his mind, that Harry would do anything for any of his friends, but he had just assumed that was rooted more in Harry’s natural inclination towards heroism than towards his actual, pure emotion and love for his friends.

“And that was enough?” he asked, and Harry nodded.

“What about you?” Harry prodded, and Draco shook his head.

“I have no idea,” Draco admitted. “I don’t have people or things like that in my life. Big emotion like that…that’s not something I can have.”

Harry looked at him for a second, as if Draco was missing something obvious, before rolling his eyes.

“Draco Malfoy, you’re so full of shit,” Harry told him, as if it was a fact that could not be disputed.

“Excuse me?” Draco asked, indignation rising quickly.

“You may not have had many things like that before,” Harry said, fixing him with that determined stare Draco was getting very warily acquainted with, “but you have me. I hereby take the position of Big Scary Emotion in your life.”

“You can’t just appoint yourself into my life,” Draco argued, aware of his petulant tone.

“Oh, well, I just did,” Harry replied, also reverting back to childhood, “and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

 _Well, that’s very true,_ he thought wryly.

“I suppose not,” he said, and Harry grinned. “But I still don’t have many… _fond_ memories of you.”

Harry’s grin faded, but he shrugged in acquiesce. “There’ll be time for that later,” he said, throwing a smirk in Draco’s direction, who blinked in rapid succession.

“God, Harry, that was awful,” he laughed disbelievingly, and felt the still surprising rush of affection for Harry when the boy scowled.

“I thought it was okay,” he mumbled, and Draco laughed harder.

“I mean, I practically set it up for you, so you don’t even get points for originality,” he continued, catching his breath, and Harry practically pouted.

“Well fine, George Clooney—I can teach you advanced magic and you can teach me all the ins and outs of pick-up lines,” Harry snapped, and Draco continued to giggle.

“Who—who’s _George Clooney_?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, never mind.”

Draco was bent over now, still laughing, Harry half-glaring, half-smiling at him from across the room.

“Now that we’ve gotten you loosened up a bit,” Harry began, and Draco nodded, straightening up and fighting to regain his composure, “do you have a memory that you can think of?”

Draco took a deep breath, closing his eyes and really trying to think. The endorphins must have brought out some of the happier corners of his mind, and he suddenly recalled his tenth birthday, something he’d always considered as the fondest memory of his childhood. It was the night he’d been allowed on a broom for the first time. The feeling of his father’s pride, his impending maturity and a noble new life at Hogwarts the next year—he had never been happier in his short life.

“I’ve got one,” Draco said, eyes still closed.

“Good,” Harry said. “The incantation is _Expecto Patronum_.”

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” Draco tasted the words on his tongue, strangely liking the way they sounded.

“Exactly.” He heard Harry’s voice again, and it sounded pleased. “Concentrate on your memory.”

_Sunshine, a wooden handle, a father’s smile._

“Whenever you’re ready, focus…and cast. Project.”

Draco inhaled deeply, trying to cast up the pride he had felt at that moment and cast it outward as he raised his wand.

 _“Expecto Patronum!”_ Draco exclaimed, his eyes flying open.

A ghost of a silver cloud misted from the tip of Draco’s wand and then dissipated, and Draco’s heart sank.

“It didn’t work,” he said, dismayed. “I told you it wouldn’t work!”

“Draco, like most things, no one gets it on their first try.” Harry reassured him, crossing the room and moving to stand behind him. He wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist and dropped his head onto Draco’s shoulder, and Draco slowly lowered his wand, relaxing into Harry’s arms.

“No one survives the Killing Curse either,” he replied, and cursed himself when he felt Harry stiffen behind him.

“Where did _that_ come from?” Harry asked, sounding a bit caught off guard.

Draco sighed. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t do well with failure.”

Harry withdrew his arms and came around to face Draco.

“That was not a failure,” he said, firmly, and Draco sighed. “It wasn’t! It’s an incredibly complex bit of magic. Even Hermione still has trouble with it, and she learned it in fifth year!”

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Draco said, and Harry smiled supportively. “Maybe my memory wasn’t strong enough.”

“Well, what did you think about?” Harry asked.

“The first time I rode a broom,” Draco answered.

Harry laughed. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

“No,” Draco snapped, defensive. “It’s a great memory! Probably the best of my childhood!”

Harry watched him, chewing on his lip. “We’re actually pretty similar,” he said finally.

“What on earth makes you say that?”

“That was the memory I tried the first time. The first time I rode a broom.” Harry explained, smiling at him.

“Oh, well, of course it was,” Draco mumbled.

“Hey! Sharing similarities with me isn’t a bad thing!” Harry exclaimed in mock offense, and Draco laughed.

“Of course not. But what was wrong with my memory?”

Harry thought for a moment. “It must not have been strong enough,” he answered simply.

Draco deflated. “What will be?”

“Think of the most intense emotion you’ve ever felt,” Harry told him. “You don’t have to do this every time, it gets easier the more you cast it. That broom memory should do just fine eventually.”

Draco nodded.

Harry moved closer until he was standing mere inches from Draco. He reached up and placed a hand on the side of Draco’s face, his fingers pressing into Draco’s temple.

“The memory comes from here, obviously,” he began, “but you also have to feel it.”

He placed a hand over Draco’s heart.

“Sentimental,” Draco snorted.

“Yeah, but it works. You have to put yourself in that scenario again, feel the emotions and intensity just as much as you originally did.”

Harry lifted his eyes to meet Draco’s, and an idea popped into Draco’s mind.

“Well,” Draco said, “this might not work, but I have something.”

Harry smiled again and stepped away, retreating to the other side of the room.

There was one thing—or rather, one _person_ , that had always been able to inspire his most dramatic brain chemistry, ignite the fire in him and turn his life around.

“You have more or less been the center of my life for a while now,” Draco remarked, closing his eyes. “You have decided, whether or not you knew it, whether my day would be good or bad and you have dictated my apparent destiny.”

He heard Harry’s intake of breath but he did not open his eyes, just breathed deeply and raised his wand.

“For some reason I was under the ridiculous impression I would never see you again when you disappeared with Weasley and Granger,” he continued. “How naive I was, wouldn't you say?”

Exhaling audibly again, Draco stopped talking and instead allowed himself to remember.

 _Remember kneeling in front of him and recognizing the green of his eyes,_ he told himself, and felt the swoop in his stomach as he recalled the sensation of his entire self being exposed, his whole future suddenly wide open.

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” Draco whispered, and gasped as a warm tingle shot from his chest through his arm and he could still feel it as it raced down his wand. He opened his eyes to see a foggy blue figure—a bird of some sort—take shape and actually _fly_ around the room before it burst into a plume of silvery blue fire and disappeared.

Draco stared at the spot where it been, transfixed.

“What was that?” he whispered.

“That was a phoenix, Draco,” Harry whispered back, and Draco’s eyes swiveled to him. He was looking at Draco with an expression of absolute wonder, pride and unadulterated affection. “Your Patronus is a phoenix.”

And the next thing Draco knew Harry was on him, squeezing him tightly and kissing him—not especially heatedly, and definitely not slowly—just simply and happily, his arms around Draco’s neck, and probably (if Draco could look and check), on his tiptoes.

The shock wore off quickly and Draco laughed into Harry’s mouth, kissing him back, nipping at Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth. Harry willingly parted his lips, entwining his tongue with Draco’s, making Draco’s heart stutter.

“Proud of me?” Draco murmured, breaking away.

“Immensely,” Harry answered seriously, kissing him quickly again. “You’re absolutely amazing, you know.”

Draco flushed and then gasped as Harry’s lips latched onto his neck and trailed kisses down the pillar of skin. His arms came down from Draco’s neck to twist in his hair and grab his hip.

“Christ—Harry,” Draco panted. “I’m—you’re gonna make me fall over!”

Harry kissed his neck once more and pulled back, a smug look gleaming in his eyes. “ _Am_ I?”

“Shut up,” Draco breathed out, fighting back a smile.

Harry grinned at him.

“Although,” Draco said, “Even though this house is currently devoid of furniture, I seem to remember somehow acquiring quite the couch downstairs?”

Harry’s mouth popped open in surprise. Draco took pride in watching his face color, but he quickly regained his composure.

“I’m sure I’ll just make you fall off of that too,” he retorted, and suddenly Disapparated with Draco.

 

The first thing Harry was aware of was the end of an indignant sound of protest from Draco and the back of his shins hitting the side of the couch. He spun Draco around and pushed him into the green cushions.

“Potter, god, you can’t just _do_ that,” Draco said dazedly, eyes locked onto Harry’s as the brunet slowly climbed onto his lap.

“Well, I just did, so,” Harry answered stubbornly, his mouth pulled up in a triumphant smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” Draco muttered, voice lowering as Harry’s head tilted closer.

“And you’re always saying that,” came Harry’s reply, and then he kissed Draco, if for no other reason than hearing his breath catch in surprise.

Kissing Draco was like celebrating the apocalypse.

It was like standing in the middle of a field as dust and fire swirls, head titled upwards towards the sky as if seeking salvation—while in reality just accepting damnation. Feeling an exhilarated sense of lack of fucks to give as cities crumble around you and leaders fall and damnation felt so much better than salvation ever could.

Who the fuck ever said one was better than the other?

He was loving certain doom.

His fingers scrambled at the hem of Draco’s shirt, and the blond pulled away, gasping, to yank it off.

Harry sat back, something in his throat tightening at the sight of the exposed scars. Draco followed his gaze.

“They don’t matter,” he said, leaning forward to kiss Harry again, but Harry shook his head.

That’s not how he wanted to treat it.

He drew his wand from his jeans pocket and transfigured the couch into a simple green bed, lowering Draco gently down on top of it.

Setting his wand aside, he hovered over Draco, watching Draco’s chest rise and fall with every deep breath he took, the gray eyes widened and watching, fascinated.

He traced the length of one scar with a shaking finger before leaning down to kiss it, and Draco’s mouth fell open.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, his voice sort of broken, and he kissed another one.

“It’s—it’s fine,” Draco stuttered, flushing hot and feeling the sudden prickle of tears behind his eyes.

_God, what was Harry doing to him?_

As Harry’s tongue peeked out to run down another, Draco shut his eyes, forcing the wetness to escape and trail down his cheeks.

“I—“ he choked out, but stopped as more tears leaked out.

“Shhh,” Harry quieted, coming up to bring his face level with Draco’s. “I know, it’s okay.”

“You are _everything_ ,” Draco whispered, eyes huge and honest. “Why are you _everything_?”

Harry blinked, lips parting. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “But I’m sorry.”

Draco laughed, wetly and happily. “It’s quite alright, Harry.”

He reached a hand to the back of Harry’s neck and pulled him down in a bruising kiss, the brunet collapsing firmly on top of him, and Draco took the opportunity to hook a leg around his hip, bringing Harry into a better position.

He tugged at Harry’s shirt, struggling to lift the fabric over the boy’s head.

Harry broke away with a laugh, reaching down and tugging it over his head.

“Shut up,” Draco muttered.

“I didn’t say anything!” Harry giggled, and Draco rolled his eyes, reaching a hand down to firmly cup Harry’s arse.

Harry’s giggles suddenly turned into a gasp, and his eyes snapped back to Draco.

“Better,” Draco commented, surging forward to capture Harry’s lips again.

And God, was he hard.

Hard enough to where every drag of the fabric on his jeans and his boxers was some kind of beautiful agony as Harry kissed the life out of him, finally moving from his lips to his neck again.

Draco arched up, thrills sparking from the nerves in his skin, making him gasp in pleasure. He circled his hips, trying unconsciously to seek some friction, and was met with an answering thrust from Harry.

They both groaned in unison, momentarily stilling.

Their eyes found each other again, mouths open and lips trembling as Draco thrust up again.

“This isn’t going to last long,” Harry managed, head falling forward as he ground his hips with Draco’s again.

“That’s fine with me,” Draco answered.

Pleasure was charging through him with each rut against Harry and it was building, tight and hot somewhere near his stomach, he couldn’t think as he gasped and his hips stuttered. His name falling from Harry’s lips in soft hisses was what finally did him in, something inside of his chest exploding into white-hot shards of crystalized fire.

Harry shuddered on top of him, and Draco forced his eyes open to stare up at Harry. Seeing that same look of falling apart made something flare up in his heart, totally submerging him in everything Harry and making an irreversible mark on Draco.

He kissed Harry through the rest of it and until their breathing finally returned to normal. Their heartbeats slowed and their kissing turned languid, lazily tasting each other, hands skimming up sides and down faces and backs.

Draco breathed deeply, kissed Harry, and wondered if this was what redemption felt like.

Harry continued to revel in his apocalypse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, couple of things:
> 
> 1\. AND THERE IT IIIIIIIIIIIS!  
> I deliberated for a LOOONG time where to put their first kiss and decided that this felt right--I hope you guys agree!
> 
> 2\. For the reader that had a rather specific request about sex scenes, this will have to be good enough for now ;) For anyone else, I really don't know if those types are going to be any more explicit than that one (I mean, it was pretty tame as far as those things go).
> 
> Um, I kind of think that's it. Subscribe or check back in about a week for Chapter 6--we'll get back into the action!  
> They still have to defeat Voldemort, after all.  
> "Oh, yeah."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look!
> 
> A Side Plot!

Cleaning up after sex— _that was what that was, wasn't it_?—was actually fairly awkward, Harry discovered.

Even with the use of magic—and Harry had no idea _Scourgify_ could be used in the way he just used it—it was still embarrassing, and the charms were uttered quietly—well, except for Draco’s laughter every time Harry blushed—and with red faces.

Harry was still in a sort of daze, his thoughts especially erratic as he lay next to Draco on the bed he had Transfigured, both of them still shirtless and suddenly tired.

“You know, like seven hours ago, you chased me down in a Muggle supermarket,” Draco commented, and Harry blinked.

“We didn’t have lunch,” he realized, making Draco laugh again.

“I wasn't hungry. Were you?”

Harry shook his head, smiling for some reason. “As far as timelines go: for you and me, I’d say that’s fairly reasonable.”

Draco turned his head towards him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, where were we a week ago?”

Draco raised his eyebrows, looking thoughtful.

“I was still scared shitless and wondering if you were about to turn up dead any day,” he answered, perhaps more honestly than necessary. Harry dropped his gaze. “I was entertaining the possibility of my entire family being killed any minute, as well. But I never imagined this.”

Harry smirked. “Whoops.”

They lay there grinning for a few more moments before Draco finally felt the need to drag them back into reality.

“You’re going to contact Ron about Gringotts, aren’t you?”

Harry nodded. “There’s someone at Shell Cottage that I think would be enormously helpful.”

“Griphook?”

“Yeah. I know it’s risky, but I think we just have to take that chance. He knows me, and he likes me. He doesn’t want to see You-Know-Who win this war either.”

“Okay,” Draco said. “And you think that there’s a Horcrux in Aunt Bellatrix’s vault?”

“Yes,” Harry affirmed.

“Which one?”

“I was actually hoping you could help me with that one,” Harry answered sheepishly, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed.

Draco sat up, looking at him perplexedly. “How?”

“Well, you know her,” Harry pointed out. “Do you know anything about her vault? What might be in it?”

“I know the protection in it,” Draco answered, blinking as though he had just remembered something. “She updated it a few months ago per You-Know-Who’s request.”

“What is it?” Harry asked, unsure whether or not to be relieved or more terrified. He settled for a strange combination of both.

“Everything you touch splits into burning multiples,” Draco answered, eyes faraway. “The idea is to basically bury the thief in scalding metal.”

Harry’s heart sunk, and his blood turned cold. It suddenly occurred to him how absolutely impossible this would be— _Fuck,_ they were going to die.

“I don’t know the curse exactly,” Draco was saying, looking down at him worriedly as if trying to reassure him. “But if I could find out what it was, I could learn the counter curse.”

“Hermione has books,” Harry said, his fear suddenly clearing at the possibility of solving a problem. “She has a fucking library in that bag, I bet we could find something.”

Draco smiled, his eyes a bit bemused.

“What?”

“You’re nearly impossible,” he said, “but not totally.”

Harry grinned. “That’s the best I get, unfortunately.”

Draco suddenly flipped over so he was hovering over Harry on the bed, his face inches from Harry’s.

“I think I quite love it anyway,” he whispered, ducking down to kiss Harry quickly.

Harry’s heart stopped and he stared at Draco, stunned, as the blond climbed off and stood up. He watched, his mind blank, as Draco retrieved his shirt and walked towards the doorway.

“I’m going to make food,” he called over his shoulder, sauntering out the door.

 

Draco made it all the way into the kitchen before he realized what the fuck he had just said.

 _Oh shit_ , he thought, whirling around, even though he knew he was alone in the room. _Oh, fuck. Fucking shit. Fuck._

He had basically just implied he was in love with Harry Potter, to Harry Potter’s face, and then kissed him. That _had_ happened, hadn’t it? That was why Harry had looked at him like that? Like Albus Dumbledore had suddenly come waltzing in naked?

_Okay, bad example._

How did that even happen? He hadn’t meant to do that. He hadn’t meant to say anything _like_ that.

But it was evident now in the terror and anticipation that he felt running deep within him that he _had_ meant it.

He hadn’t meant to _say_ it, but he meant it when he did.

 _That makes sense_ , he told himself sarcastically, and groaned.

And what of Harry? No matter what he was thinking right now, Harry was probably pacing around the living room, thinking of the nicest way to tell Draco he was insane.

Because even if Draco did fancy himself in love with Harry Potter—the pure fact itself was completely absurd. They had been _involved_ , so to say, for less than twenty-four hours. Fuck, less than _twelve_. Friendly, even, for less than a week.

It was impossible to love that quickly.

So how long had it actually been?

_“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.”_

Draco sighed and shut his eyes, letting his body slump against the kitchen counters.

How do you trace back a feeling? How do you follow it to its contraception?

_The feeling of being completely thrown. Unbalanced._

How does that even translate into love?

_He followed him through the castle twice—pitch black—that year._

Someone making an impression on you is one thing--

_“Scared, Potter?”_

_Of course he fucking wasn’t._

_\--_ but loving them instantly was quite another.

_Fourth year—of course, but that was when it all started to go to shit anyway. Sexuality crisis and all._

_And the dragons—should have been his first clue. He’d never been that fucking scared._

_It seemed his heart hadn’t even dared to beat as he watched Harry in that tournament._

He had to concede that it made a bit of sense, actually.

_Fifth year—watching Harry go a little bit insane. Heart a little bit broken._

_Heart breaking a little for him._

Hadn’t he always sort of loved Harry? Loved him since he was a child, the mysterious stories, the vague but strong sense of heroism? Hated him because he could never get close enough?

_Sixth year—the worst of his life. The obsession Harry suddenly had with him—how no one should be that distracting--_

“Draco?”

Draco’s head snapped up to see Harry standing hesitantly in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes guarded.

_Shit._

“I’m sorry,” Draco apologized immediately, an instinct still startlingly new to him.

“So you _do_ realize what you said,” Harry sighed, and his posture relaxed a little bit.

“Yes, and I didn’t mean to,” Draco replied, wording it carefully. It wouldn’t do to lie.

“Did you…mean _it_ , though?”

_Un-fucking-believable._

Damn Potter and his selective clairvoyance.

Draco chose not to answer.

“I want to know what I mean to you,” Harry said softly, his arms dropping by his sides.

Draco met his eyes, searching.

_It wouldn’t do to lie._

“I don’t know exactly how someone would measure something like that,” Draco answered slowly, honestly. “Evidently, you mean more than…life. You mean enough that I would do anything you tell me to do.”

Harry’s eyes darkened, the shields coming down. He stepped closer.

“You mean more than my sins,” Draco added, somehow meeting Harry in the middle. “That means a whole fucking lot, for someone to be that…much. I meant it when I said it—you mean _everything_ to me.”

Harry reached out for his hands, taking each in one of his. He pulled Draco in close.

“I love you too,” he said, and Draco froze.

“I—I love you, don’t I?”

“For how long?”

A pause.

_“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.”_

Draco looked up.

“Since…since always, somehow,” he whispered, feeling the ridiculous urge to cry.

Harry cupped his face in his hands. “Seems about right.”

“Just kiss me, will you?”

Harry did.

 

Harry figured it was the same sort of feeling you get when something’s ultimately really easy to understand and you finally understand it—kind of sheepish, but overall just incredibly relieved.

Maybe if he had an audience, someone would stand up and yell: ” _Finally!”_

 

After dinner—when it finally got made—Harry and Draco found themselves in the room that had evidently become a sort of practice room for Draco’s Patronus lessons.

“It needs to be fully corporeal before we can use it to send a message,” Harry said, and even though Draco knew this had to be learned and proficient as soon as possible, Harry’s voice held no sense of urgency. He really was a fantastic teacher.

Draco took a deep breath, summoning a different memory—the first time Harry kissed him—and raised his wand.

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he said clearly, opening his eyes to see the blue phoenix burst from his wand.

It was almost fully formed, but the wings were hazy and he couldn't retain it for more than a few moments. Draco frowned in disappointment as it disappeared.

“This is hard,” he said, a bit thickly.

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” Harry answered easily. “You’re doing great.”

Draco reveled in Harry’s smile for a moment for raising his wand to cast it again.

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he murmured, his mind still full of Harry, and the phoenix soared from the tip of his wand. He almost shouted in pride as he saw the perfectly formed bird fly around the entire room. He willed it to encircle Harry, and it did, the sight of it filling them both him an infectious happiness.

“Draco! You did it!” Harry shouted, laughing, reaching his hand up as if he was going to pet the bird.

Draco watched him, grinning, and felt for the first time that everything really could be okay.

“How do I send a message with it?” Draco asked as it faded into nonexistence.

Harry grinned at him.

 

“Where…where is Harry?” Hermione Granger asked softly, still smiling dimly at Ron.

Ron’s heart sank.

Hermione was showing signs of steady improvement—quicker, in fact, than most of the patients in her state. But any brain recovery was slow work, and she was still only conscious for upwards of an hour at a time. She was retaining small bits of information but missing out on the bigger things—no matter how many times they were repeated to her. She had been informed of Harry’s absence, but seemed to keep forgetting it every time she woke up again.

She had registered how she ended up in her state, and she knew that she was sick. She could remember and recall everything that had happened to her up until she had initially lost consciousness. She couldn’t sense time elapsing—to her, it had been mere hours since they had arrived.

A Healer had assessed her yesterday, and was able to assure them with relative confidence that she should recover fully.

“But,” she had said gravely, “only time will truly tell.”

Ron took her hand and pasted on a smile. “He had to go take care of some stuff,” he answered, and he could sense Hermione’s dissatisfaction with the answer. It reassured him—she was still herself, even under her injury.

“Is he safe?”

“He has someone with him,” Ron replied carefully, unable to stop his smile from flickering. “They’re looking out for each other.”

Hermione nodded, blinking slowly.

Ron sighed inwardly. She would be asleep again soon.

He answered a few more of her questions before she was out, sighing softly and closing her eyes in sleep.

He watched her for a few moments before sitting back in the chair he had barely moved from in days.

His mind drifted back to Harry again, and whether Malfoy was even still with him or not. There had been no mention or update on either of them from any of their sources, and Ron had to wonder what they were doing. Was he keeping Malfoy locked up somewhere while he tried to figure out what to do? Probably not, judging by Harry’s usual character and the way he was acting around Malfoy for the short time he had been here.

Feeling the familiar sense of guilt creep up in him every time he thought of Harry and what he was doing, he looked back down at Hermione.

Harry understood, right? Understood he couldn’t leave her. Not again.

Ron sighed again. Maybe he should sleep too.

Or…maybe he _was_ asleep?

How else would one explain the blue flame phoenix that suddenly swept in from the window, soaring around the room before landing on the bed beside Hermione, facing Ron?

Ron shook himself. It was obviously a Patronus—but one he didn’t recognize.

Well, not until Draco Malfoy’s voice sounded clearly from it, Ron automatically tensing in response.

“ _Weasley_ ,” it said, “ _Harry and I are both safe. We are in the stages of planning for acquiring the next Horcrux, and we need you to send Griphook to the Cornelissen house in Amsterdam. Tell everyone we’re okay.”_

With that, the phoenix burst into flame and disappeared, leaving Ron and the still-sleeping Hermione alone again.

Ron sat back, stunned. In his worried and addled state, his thoughts weren’t coming clearly, details and questions and confusions firing around in his brain in no particular order.

He forced himself to organize his thoughts—he apparently had a task Harry needed him to do. And that was…to send Griphook to some house in _Amsterdam_?

He looked uneasily in the direction of the goblin’s room. He had no idea if Griphook was even well enough for travel, never mind the possibility of helping Draco Malfoy. Granted, that Draco Malfoy also apparently came with a certain Harry Potter, but all of that raised the question of what they even wanted with Griphook in the first place.

Griphook was somehow going to aid them in getting the next Horcrux—and right, Malfoy knows about Horcruxes now—through what Ron assumed was some special knowledge the goblin had.

He stood, glancing once more at Hermione before going to see Griphook.

 

He found the goblin thankfully awake, staring thoughtfully out of the window.

Clearing his throat, he knocked on the open door.

“Mr. Ronald Weasley,” Griphook drawled, without turning his gaze from the window. “What service may I be to you?”

“How…how, er, are you doing?” Ron tried, an uneasy smile on his face.

“I have been better,” the goblin replied, turning his beady eyes onto Ron. “I repeat: what service may I be to you?”

Ron felt a prickle of irritation, but forced himself to keep it out of his voice. “I…I just received a message from Harry,” he answered, deciding to cut the rest of the small talk. “He seems to need your help with something.”

“With what?”

“I…I don’t know,” Ron replied sheepishly, and the goblin’s eyes narrowed. “It’s something to do with helping defeat You-Know-Who.”

“And why would I want to help a wizard?”

“Because he’s trying to save your arse!” Ron shot back hotly. “He’s trying to save all our arses, actually. Look, I know some wizards have done some pretty bad shit to you and your kind—but Harry’s not them.”

Griphook was silent for a moment. He looked back out the window.

“Harry Potter is a very unusual wizard,” he said.

Ron rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me, mate,” he muttered.

“Is Mister Harry Potter coming here?”

“No. He gave me an address—he wants you to go to a house in Amsterdam,” Ron replied, trying to remember the name. “The Corn…er—hang on, the…Co—corny…”

“The Cornelissens?”

“Yes! You know them?”

“All goblins know of all rich Wizarding families, Mr. Weasley. What confuses me is the location—the house in Amsterdam has been vacant for—“ Griphook paused, leaning back into his pillows. “Ah. Mr. Malfoy is cleverer than I thought, it seems.”

Ron blinked. “Right,” he said. “Of course he is. Are you going?”

Griphook searched him for a moment before answering.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Great,” Ron answered, relieved. “I’ll tell Harry.”

 

It wasn’t long before Ron’s Russell terrier had bounded into the kitchen, and Harry and Draco both sat up straighter in expectation.

“ _Harry—and Malfoy--Griphook has agreed to help and should be there at ten next morning. Hermione getting better—I’m still staying. Just be relatively safe, okay?”_

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at the last part as the Patronus disappeared.

He was going to be as safe as a Gringotts break-in could be, right?

As if the thought of Gringotts had suddenly brought him back to reality, he remembered with a clench of anxiety that Griphook more or less held their fate in his hands. If he wasn’t receptive to the plan, Draco and Harry would have to stage a break-in on their own, knowing next to nothing about how to do it. Would he go back to Shell Cottage? Would he request to be protected here? Would he try and stop them?

Harry glanced at the clock. They had a little over twelve hours before Griphook was set to arrive.

It had long since darkened outside, and they had chosen to charm the light instead of lighting torches or whatever other absurd lighting system the house was equipped with.

Neither one of them had spoken, and an uneasy silence filled the air.

“It’ll be okay,” Harry spoke, trying to fill the void. “We get through everything.”

“How can you be so confident everything will go right?” Draco asked, disbelieving.

Harry laughed, walking over to where the blond had stood up. He wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist, squeezing gently.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, everything will completely go to fucking flaming hell when we get there,” Harry said, and Draco looked at him in alarm. “but we always get through that part.”

Draco half-smiled. “Alright.”

With a rush of exhaustion, Harry realized he had nothing he could do until Griphook got there. For the first time since they arrived, they were out of things they had to do.

And he was fucking _tired_. The Snatchers incident had been early that same morning, which was just hours before the fateful firelight conversation, which immediately followed that damned haircut, the rabbit, the Horcruxes, and it had been little more than a day since the moment he realized he could trust Draco entirely.

God, their timeline was fucked. It felt like he’d been with Draco for weeks. Months.

“I’m tired,” Harry announced, and he could feel Draco sag against him.

“God, me too. Are we just going to sleep in the living room?”

Harry nodded. “I don’t want to try and conjure another bed. We can do that tomorrow.”

“We’ll have to for Griphook.”

Harry groaned. “Don’t remind me. Just sleep. Bed. Now.”

Draco snorted. “Well, come on then, Potter.”

They made their way into the adjacent living room and left the light of the charm they had cast. The only light they had now came from the thick ribbons of moonlight streaming in from the wide windows behind the bed.

Harry immediately flopped down onto the bed, knocking his glasses askew.

“Are you not going to change?” Draco asked, and Harry looked down at his fully clothed body. He took off his glasses, folded them in his pocket, and then reached down to unbutton his jeans. He shoved them over his hips and let them fall the floor before climbing into bed.

Draco’s lips parted and he sucked in a breath as if in hesitation, but he soon shrugged and followed suit.

Harry felt rather than saw Draco slide into bed next to him, and he realized with a jolt to his system that he was about to sleep with Draco Malfoy. Like, actually _sleep_.

The boy he was in love with, the boy suddenly in the absolute forefront of his life, the boy he would suddenly go to any number of lengths for, falling asleep right next to him.

He turned on his side, facing Draco. The boy had already closed his eyes, head tilted towards Harry and hair careless, as Draco must have gotten used to it being.

Harry was fully aware of the cliche as he stared at the planes of Draco’s face, softened by relaxation and the moonlight behind them. But he really was beautiful, sharp curves of his face balanced by soft ones, chest rising and falling gently, and Harry loved him.

“Are you just going to stare at me all night?” Draco asked suddenly, cracking one silver eye open and startling Harry. He flushed, dropping his gaze. Draco laughed suddenly. “I’m not complaining, per say, but you did say you were tired.”

“I am,” Harry affirmed, and moved closer to wrap Draco in his arms. “And I also love you.”

He smiled at Draco’s intake of breath. “I love you too,” he heard the blond say, after a moment.

The words felt strange to say for both of them, but they were strange in a way that makes you excited to keep saying them so you get used to them.

“I know. Go to sleep,” Harry instructed, kissing the top of his head.

They did.

 

_“Draco Malfoy has not been found…it is believed he is still with Harry Potter.”_

_He was in…a basement. Some sort of stone-walled cellar—one slit high in one wall serving as a window._

_A figure in dark robes in the middle._

_“How touching, don’t you think? I quite like redemption stories.” A high, cold voice continued with a mockingly interested air, amidst the whimpers and sounds of a woman crying._

_Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dark cell, barely lit by moonlight and whatever evil light Voldemort was giving off. Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to reach the blurry figure of a woman cowering in the corner, as far away from the dark wizard as she could get._

_“You, of all people, know that I do not take lightly to traitors. Lucius’s failing was disappointment enough. It seems the Malfoy line does not stand for anything anymore.”_

_“P—please,” the woman whispered hoarsely, the sound trembling and desperate and terrified. She lifted her face to the light and Harry recognized Narcissa Malfoy, dirty and gaunt, with a shock. “Draco—it was a mistake, I’m sure of it! We—we are faithful—“_

_“Silence,” Voldemort hissed, and Narcissa fell silent as suddenly as if she had been cursed. “You lie! CRUCIO!”_

_Narcissa screamed as the curse hit her, and it rebounded all around the stone dungeon, broken and hoarse. Her body twisted and writhed, shaking and old and frail, bending unnaturally and contorting painfully._

_Harry felt nauseous, his eyes glued to the gruesome look on Narcissa’s face as Voldemort continued to torture her._

_“Bellatrix tells me you entrusted Severus to kill Dumbledore last year, all in fear of your precious son.” Voldemort says, finally lifting the curse, and she sagged to the floor, breathing hard and unsteadily. “This was betrayal too, Narcissa. Such is the fashion, it seems. Like mother, like son, the saying should go.”_

_“Not—true—“ Narcissa was whispering._

_“CRUCIO!”_

_Narcissa screamed and screamed, and Harry could not look away._

_“I keep Lucius because he is still useful to me,” Voldemort hissed, when he had relented. “He is too pathetic to be any danger. The same cannot be said for your son, unfortunately. He will die, just as surely as you will.”_

_Narcissa sat up then, pushing her weakened form off of the stone floor to face Voldemort full-on._

_“My son is more to me than you ever will be,” she spat, her eyes wide and suddenly vicious, and Voldemort’s face twisted. “You will NEVER get to him!”_

_Voldemort moved forward as if to seize her, but abruptly stopped. A calm look overtook him then, and he settled back, raising his wand lazily._

_Narcissa watched him, chest heaving, hair wild, eyes terrified and raging._

_“I disagree,” Voldemort said. “AVADA KEDAVRA!”_

Harry woke, violent and sudden, heart slamming against his chest, the blaze of green light imprinted behind his eyelids and Narcissa Malfoy’s last scream ringing in his ears. He sat up quickly, trying to rid his mind of the frenzy it was in, accidentally knocking Draco’s arms free of him in the process.

He was shaking—he heard Draco stir and start to wake up and realized with a panic that he would have to tell Draco his mother was dead—or, at least, going to be soon—

“Harry?”

Draco’s sleepy whisper sounded behind him and he cringed.

This, of course, could all be a trick. It could be a trick like Sirius was a trick, and Narcissa was still perfectly safe—well, as safe as she had been.

There could be no reason to tell Draco anything.

And of course, Harry realized with a sinking heart, therein lay the challenge.

Voldemort was _challenging_ him.

He had a choice: tell Draco, and risk the consequences of his grief and anger. Or he could not tell Draco, and risk nothing but guilt and the probable chance of a fallout.

He glanced at Draco, who had sat up despite Harry’s lack of reply and was looking at him with concerned eyes. He was still trying to blink the sleep from them.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Draco asked, words a bit slurred, and Harry sighed.

“Not exactly,” he replied. “Come into the kitchen with me. I need to tell you something.”

 

When they had both pulled on their jeans and cast a Tempus Charm—it was just past three in the morning—they padded uneasily into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table.

“Okay,” Harry began, “so, I kind of have this sort of mental connection with You-Know-Who.”

Draco blinked. “Okay,” he accepted, brows furrowed. “Why isn’t that a bigger deal?”

“It is a big deal, that’s the thing,” Harry sighed. “It’s a huge deal. See, when You-Know-Who tried to kill me that first time, and failed—“

“Am I ever going to get the story on that?”

“Later—he accidentally transferred a lot of his power into me. That’s why I can speak Parseltongue, actually.”

“Oh, perfect. You have some of You-Know-Who in you,” Draco made a face.

“Well, sometimes it can be used to my advantage. See, until fifth year, the only thing that really ever happened was it would…hurt. When he was near, or something. Like that time in the Forbidden Forest in first year, with you—“

“That was HIM?!” Draco leapt backwards, eyes flying wide open, all traces of sleep gone.

“Well, yeah,” Harry replied, startled. “You didn’t know that?”

“No!”

“Oh. Sorry. Anyway—nothing really huge happened with it until fifth year. Well, a few dreams, maybe errant emotions, but it was nothing compared to the visions.”

Draco paled. “The…the visions?”

“Yeah. I can’t control it. I just get them—people he’s killing or talking to, things he’s trying to get or find out—that sort of thing. It got horrible in fifth year, and everyone was telling me how dangerous it was, and we didn’t even know if You-Know-Who even knew it was there. He didn’t seem to, and he didn’t seem to be getting any of _my_ stuff, so we figured we were safe. Snape started me on Occlumency lessons— _that_ didn’t go well, as you can imagine.”

“So…you just _gave up_?” Draco asked, a hint of anger in his voice.

“No, not exactly—I kind of started to lie, make up progress where there was none—and then Snape quit the lessons after a particularly bad session—and then, apparently, You-Know-Who became aware of it.” Harry finished quietly, looking up at Draco, who was still watching him with a horrified expression. It was key he understood this next part before Harry could tell him what he saw.

“So, the visions stopped or something?” Draco asked hesitantly.

Harry grimaced. “No. He used it to try and get to me.”

“…How?”

Harry took a deep breath, feeling the only somewhat dulled sensation of grief and guilt that came with recalling the events leading up to Sirius’s death.

“He gave me a false vision,” he answered in a forced monotone, closing his eyes. “Sirius—we were hiding him at the time, and he showed me Sirius being tortured and him trying to kill him—and I went to try and save him.”

“The Department of Mysteries,” Draco breathed, leaning back in his chair. Harry nodded, eyes still closed.

“He wasn’t there, obviously; we were met instead by a bunch of Death Eaters. Sirius, along with the Order, came and tried to rescue us, and that's when Bellatrix killed him.” Harry’s voice broke on the last part, and he felt the familiar rush of cold and ache as he remembered it all— _“Nice one, James,”_ —and forced himself to continue.

“The thing is, though,” he pressed on, opening his eyes and staring intently at Draco, “there was no way for me to tell the difference between the fake vision and a real one. There’s no difference between the two—one’s simply true and one’s not.”

Draco’s look of sympathy changed to caution.

“And you had a vision in your sleep,” he guessed, and Harry nodded. “What did you see?”

Harry made himself maintain eye contact. “Your mother,” he answered, and Draco’s expression went slack.

“What—what happened?” he whispered.

“He was…talking to her…saying how you had betrayed him…and _she_ had betrayed him…” Harry sucked in a breath, his eyes screwing shut as the terror and nausea welled up in him again. “He tortured her—“

Draco made some sort of choking sound.

“Harry,” he gasped, whiter than Harry had ever seen him, “is my mother…is she dead?”

Harry got up immediately and went around the table to hold Draco’s hands in his own as he thought of a way to answer.

“Draco, I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Draco cried out, tears welling up in his eyes. “In the vision, he…he killed her.”

“But—“ Draco stammered, shaking, and Harry grasped his hands tighter, “but you said it was fake, right? A f-fake vision?”

“It _could_ be,” Harry corrected gently. “I don’t know.”

“What do we do, then?” Draco sniffed, wiping his eyes and seemingly trying to compose himself.

“I don’t know,” Harry said again, opting for total honesty.

“Well, what do you _normally_ do?” Draco hissed, pulling his hand from Harry’s. Harry jumped, bewildered. “The only reason you’re not staging some insane Gryffindor rescue mission is because of who she is! She’s my mother, she’s a _Death Eater_!”

“Did you even listen to me at all?!” Harry shot back hotly. “The last time we did that, _my Godfather died_. Because it was a _trap_!”

“WHAT IF IT ISN’T? YOU DON’T CARE ENOUGH!”

“That’s not true!”

“Would you have rescued _me_ , if it was me in that cellar too?”

“Of course I would have!”

“Then GET MY MOTHER TOO!” Draco screamed, and flung himself away from Harry.

Harry let out a hard breath, pressing down his anger.

 Draco wasn’t thinking clearly, he knew that. Harry never thought clearly either in the face of tragedy, and one of the only people Draco has ever cared about might be dead.

But now he was moving towards the door—not to the living room, but to the first floor—and that filled Harry with alarm.

“Draco,” Harry tried, standing quickly up. Draco whirled around.

“I’m going to get her. I don’t care if you’re coming or not!”

“Draco!” Harry ran up to him as Draco darted out of his reach. “Draco, listen to me!”

He grabbed Draco’s wrist and pulled him back, wincing when Draco hissed in pain.

“I’m sorry, but you have to listen to me!”

“ _What_?” Draco snapped, ceasing his struggles and staring challengingly down at Harry.

“Your mother is either dead or she is _fine_ ,” Harry said, meeting Draco’s harsh stare with a gaze equally as firm. “Say the vision was true—what’s next? We go get her body?”

“What if he’s _going_ to kill her?”

“He’d kill any one of them at a moment’s notice! Going there now isn’t going to change that. I’m sorry, Draco, but if we go there we’ll die, and I’m not going to let you die.”

Draco tried to pull himself free.

“Draco. Are you going to let _me_ die?”

Draco’s eyes snapped to him. “No,” he replied automatically.

“I’m sorry, Draco, but we _can’t go_.”

Draco exhaled, eyes clearing. He slumped against Harry, letting him lead him away from the door and back out of the kitchen.

They made it back to their makeshift room without further incident, Draco’s breathing pattern steadying as they walked.

“You know, Snape taught me Occlumency as well,” Draco said, climbing onto the mattress.

Harry blinked, both in surprise and relief at Draco’s calmness. “Really?”

“Yeah. It was very successful—though I can imagine why your lessons with him didn’t work out. If this is going to continue to be a problem—I mean, I bet I could teach you.”

Harry looked at him in surprise. “That would actually help a lot,” he replied. “Why didn’t you kidnap me sooner?”

Draco smirked. “I had to wait until you were cute enough.”

Harry laughed. “Joke’s on you. I never got cute.”

“I realized that, unfortunately.”

Harry shoved him playfully before settling back in to sleep, holding on to Draco a little more tightly than necessary.

 

_“Draco Malfoy has not been found…it is believed he is still with Harry Potter. How touching…”_

_“You, of all people, know that I do not take lightly to traitors…”_

_“The same cannot be said for your son, unfortunately. He will die…”_

_“You will NEVER get to him!”_

_“I disagree…”_

 

Harry’s eyes snapped open, and he was greeted with the dim and young light of the early morning. Draco was still heavily asleep and mercifully still there, wrapped around Harry, his head tucked under Harry’s chin.

Harry’s heart was thundering in his chest, horror creeping in to the corners of his mind.

He finally realized the true duality of his vision.

Voldemort now had a new way of getting to Harry—and now a new target for revenge.

Harry had no idea how much Voldemort knew—or guessed—about Harry and Draco (and the evidence was apparently fairly damning), but he seemed to think Draco now fell under the list of People Harry Potter Cared About.

It had been a warning for Draco just as much as it had been a warning for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna let this chapter go without many notes.
> 
> I'd be happy to share my thoughts if you want them--comment if you want to know what I was thinking or if you're still loving this or you now hate it or if you're really confused--I love comments (even if they're really weird I get a huge kick out of humanity)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly late update!
> 
> So we're now delving into a more plot-central chapter: the arrival of Griphook!  
> It's a longer chapter than usual, but at least this and Chapter 8 will be long ones since they deal with more plotty material.  
> Enjoy!

The Cornelisson estate looked much more impressive in the morning light than it had in the waning evening, this time with the birds twittering in the still-growing garden and the sun sparkling off the stones that made up the facade of the house.

Harry was observing it all with an absent appreciation, most of his attention focused on the impending arrival of Griphook, who would be waiting for them in the alley they had originally landed in in less than five minutes.

“This is incredibly risky,” Draco commented unhelpfully.

Harry sighed. “It’s the best chance we’ve got,” he replied, repeating the mantra that had been running through his mind all morning.

The first thing they had done when they had both woken up was move the bed up to a random empty room on the second floor, and conjured another one in a room on the first floor for Griphook. Inspired, they had refurnished the house with simple furniture in the name of hospitality, Draco making the pieces as stately as he could, sensing Harry’s anxiety to make a good impression.

Griphook’s satisfaction was absolutely key.

“Are you sure he should see me right away?” Draco asked him, not for the first times, as they stood together, keeping his voice neutral and his eyes on the grass at his feet.

“He already knows you’re here,” Harry reasoned. “If I hide you, it might be a bit suspicious.”

“Harry, I was part of the force that imprisoned him,” Draco argued, even though he knew he was just repeating the debate they’d already had.

“You’re not anymore, though.”

“You think that matters to him?” Draco grumbled, exasperated, even though a small part of him was secretly very pleased Harry seemed so adamant on presenting him as a part of his team.

“He likes me, and he’ll learn to like you.” Harry said firmly, and Draco knew the discussion was over.

Nothing to do now but wait.

The Tempus charm they had cast rang out the changing of the hour, and Draco and Harry glanced uneasily at one another. Draco’s face softened and he tried on a reassuring smile, for which Harry seemed grateful.

They joined hands and stepped through the garden wall.

After the familiar sucking sensation and the still ungraceful deposit of bodies on the other side, they stumbled to their feet and immediately looked around for an early arrival of the goblin. They remained alone.

It was a rainy day, luckily—they would have more cover from wandering Muggle (or even wizard) eyes. Two teenage boys stumbling around in an alleyway saying things that don’t make sense is much easier to excuse than an actual, physical goblin appearing out of nowhere.

Draco blinked, and wondered if Griphook would be coming alone.

“Is Weasley coming to drop him off?”

Harry looked round at him. “Oh, er—I don’t know,” he admitted, worry creasing his face.

Another minute passed before the expected but still sudden crack sounded through the air, masked slightly by the sheet of rain coming down outside of the covered alleyway.

There, standing haughty and stiff in front of the boys, was Griphook, one hand clutching a small bag of clothes and the other pressed against his ribcage. Draco wondered with a pang of guilt if he was in any pain.

“Griphook,” Harry greeted, relatively warmly and obviously relieved. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Draco offered an awkward and hesitant smile, deciding to let Harry ‘introduce’ him.

Griphook nodded once. “Mr. Potter,” he replied. “Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco blinked in surprise, hope rising in his chest as he hurriedly returned the nod.

“Er, shall we get back to the house?” Harry suggested, his eyes darting around to their open surroundings.

“I think that would be wise,” Griphook agreed, and fell into step behind Harry.

“I have to do this part,” Draco interjected apologetically, and Griphook raised his chin, peering at Draco with an unreadable expression.

“You’ve never been given permission to enter, but I have direct permission from the family, so I have to lead you in first,” Draco explained apologetically, trying to look like he completely resented having to lead the goblin anywhere (which, honestly, he really did).

Griphook gave another curt nod, and Draco let out a subtle breath of relief. Harry smiled at him encouragingly.

Draco placed his hand on the cement wall, watching it begin to activate. He held out his other hand for Griphook to grab onto, and with some hesitation, was successful, even if the goblin’s nails were digging a bit harder than necessary into the back of his hand.

Harry went through on his own, and they were all pulled through unpleasantly in a manner that seemed much slower than usual.

Once they were free, Draco’s eyes (and Harry’s) went immediately to Griphook to assess his reaction. Personally, Draco found it to be much more impressive than Shell Cottage, but he could not speak for Griphook, goblins’ thirst for treasure and riches aside.

“This is not what I expected the Cornelissen estate to be, given their enormous wealth.” Griphook commented, and Draco noted Harry’s audible intake of breath.

“Is it...alright?” the brunet asked, gazing anxiously from the mansion to the goblin in a way that reminded Draco oddly of a stressed out Granger.

“I like it,” Griphook decided, and Draco smiled at Harry.

“Onwards, then?” Draco pressed, feeling bolder, and received another signature nod.

 

Harry decided to show Griphook to his room first, trying subtlety to let the goblin know how incredibly valued he was to them.

Honestly, he had no idea if pomp and flattery was the right way to a goblin’s heart, but in the limited experience he had with them he knew they liked to feel like they were belonging of something—whether that be knowledge or gold.

“Does the family know of your presence here?” Griphook asked, setting his bag down in his new lodgings without commenting on them.

Harry glanced at Draco, who swallowed nervously before speaking.

“Only their son, Alexander. He has been sworn to secrecy, I assure you.”

Griphook nodded in apparent satisfaction and Harry wondered if the sudden return to the stately flow and vocabulary of Draco’s voice was a conscious and psychological choice or more of a defense mechanism.

Not wanting anyone to be on the offensive, Harry decided that maybe they should let the goblin acclimate to his surroundings before they sprung their incredibly sensitive plan onto him.

“Would you—er, are you alright…with everything?” he asked, chewing on him bottom lip.

“I would like some rest before I consider whatever it is you are needing my assistance with,” Griphook replied, climbing into the bed and settling under the covers.

“Of course,” Harry replied hurriedly, and he and Draco quickly retreated from the room.

“That went well,” Draco murmured to Harry as he shut the door carefully behind them.

“It did,” Harry agreed. He was so relieved that Griphook had even showed up ready and relatively willing that he didn’t really realize until then how stressed out he had been.

And it was odd, wasn’t it? Harry was unlikely to be deterred or worried over a minor detail—and he had a fairly loose ability to apply the adjective _minor_ —so why did this bother him so much?

It felt like there was something blocking half his thoughts, trying to stop the part of his brain responsible for calming him down. It felt like he was repressing something.

Perhaps against his better judgment, Harry decided to take a nap as well. Draco declined to join him, just kissed him lightly on the lips and promising not to go outside the wall.

Harry found their bedroom with only a little difficulty, growing more and more tired with each passing second.

He sank down onto the bed and was asleep almost immediately—it was like a sudden dam bursting open.

_The Elder Wand._

He had forgotten about the Elder Wand.

How could he have remembered? With something as completely unexpected and sudden as Draco Malfoy back in the forefront of his life (and therefore, his mind), could he really concentrate on a half-baked theory he now had no way of proving?

But Voldemort was after it, he was sure of it now. Ollivander must have told him of its existence, believing it was real or not, and told him also of the last person he knew that had it.

And he remembered with the sensation of clicking puzzle pieces the vision he had of the old man in the cell—Gregorovitch—and how the Elder Wand must have been stolen from him by Grindelwald, and finally passed, after the fateful duel, into the possession of Dumbledore.

And there it lay, its final—

_He was at the gates of Hogwarts. Standing on the banks of the Great Lake and looking around at the only landscape he could have called him, his true birthplace, and the smear of white that ruined it._

_The tomb of Albus Dumbledore._

Harry sat up, chest heaving.

He almost cried for Draco, almost ran to grab Bellatrix’s wand and Disapparated right then.

But just as the grave of his former headmaster was seared onto the inside of his eyelids, he recalled his task with a clear decision snapping into his conscious.

Storming the castle with his boyfriend and perhaps a wounded goblin to face up against Voldemort, the recent acquirer of the Elder Wand, would be among the stupidest things he’d ever done.

And he had promised the memory of Dumbledore, himself and Hermione that he would focus on the Horcruxes. His task and his destiny did not lie with the Hallows.

That had been Dumbledore’s mistake, hadn’t it?

He was to stay here. He was to do things according to plan.

Still, even though he knew he had made the right decision, Harry could not help the guilt and self-berating that came with him doing nothing. The course of action was unfamiliar and didn’t sit right with him, though it helped to think that Hermione would probably be proud of him.

He just felt like he had let Voldemort take the wand.

“Are you alright?”

Harry jumped violently and yanked his head up to the doorway, relaxing at the sight of a worried Draco hovering by the entrance.

“Voldemort has the Elder Wand,” Harry said, watching Draco carefully.

Draco laughed shortly, walking into the room and sitting beside Harry.

“God, that would be fucking awful. But it was just a dream, Harry—the Elder Wand doesn’t actually exist. It’s a fairytale,” Draco soothed, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

Harry sighed and shook his head, trying to shake the irritation at Draco’s tone from his mind.

“It’s real. Along with the others, too—the Cloak and the Stone,” Harry explained, and Draco drew back from his position to look concededly into Harry’s eyes.

“Muggles have fairytales too, don’t they? Stories they tell their children at night?”

“For fuck’s sake, Draco, this isn't some damn cultural difference!” Harry snapped, standing up abruptly.

“It must be, because the Deathly Hallows is a conspiracy for nutters!” Draco shot back. “Harry, trust me, I know more about this than you, and it’s simply because I grew up around this! I know how to separate what’s real and what’s— _where are you going?_ ”

Harry had heard enough. He stormed from the room, irritation boiling over into anger at Draco’s ignorant assumptions of him.

Not only had he failed to stop Voldemort from gaining an essential piece to his continued rise to power, he now had no one to express the immediacy of their situation to—mostly due to Draco thinking pure blood meant the ticket to the only totally valid magical living.

Draco was following him, rushing along the corridors as Harry stomped ahead of him.

“Harry— _slow down, for fuck’s sake!_ ”

“I can prove it!” Harry said suddenly, whirling around and almost colliding with Draco as the blond ran up to him.

“Prove—the Hallows? Harry, I’m telling you—“

“Oh, shut up, you arrogant ponce, and come with me.” Harry commanded, and Draco’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes flashing. He folded his arms with an impressively forceful exhalation and followed Harry.

They walked back to the bedroom in a fuming silence, Harry stalking ahead of Draco and Draco stalking behind Harry.

Harry went for the bedside table and pulled Hermione’s bag out of the drawer.

Reaching his hand inside, Harry fished around until his hand closed finally around a portion of silky fabric. He yanked the entire thing out, determinedly not looking at Draco until he had unearthed the entire thing.

Draco raised his eyebrows, a cool and familiar mask in place of his newfound openness with Harry. “That’s supposed to be the Cloak, then?”

“How do you think I avoided expulsion at Hogwarts?” Harry replied smugly. “All those years sneaking around night, hardly getting in trouble?” He passed the fabric through his hands before he whipped it around himself, letting the cloak drape itself over his body.

“By being Harry bloody Po— _holy fuck.”_

He watched, now assuredly invisible, as Draco’s sneer melted away into wide-eyed astonishment.

“There—there were always rumors,” Draco said, coming closer and reaching out his hand as it to try and touch Harry. “But I just assumed—it was more shit made up about you and your legend, or whatever—or a spare pair of robes Granger had enchanted—“

“Nope,” Harry replied, his lips popping on the ‘p’.

“So—hang on—“ Draco said, blinking and stepping back. A look of outrage came over his face and Harry shrugged off the cloak, eyebrows raised.

“Third year, in Hogsmeade! With the fucking snowballs! That _was_ you!” Draco screeched, thrusting a finger at Harry.

Harry remembered with a burst of laughter.

“You were being a git,” he reasoned, grinning, and Draco’s face darkened.

He was right on Harry in a flash, seeming to tower over him suddenly even though he still wasn’t all that taller. His stare pinned Harry in place, his lips curved in a predatory smile.

“ _God_ , I hated you for that. I hated you _so_ much, _Potter_ ,” he growled, placing two hands on Harry’s shoulders and _shoving_ him back onto the bed.

Harry fell ungracefully, surprised and immediately turned on.

Well, that shouldn’t be right.

“I thought you always loved me,” Harry replied, smirking. “Or do you say that to all the pretty boys?”

“I did, but I think it made me hate you,” Draco answered, and the honesty of it struck Harry for a moment before Draco crawled up to him on the bed, hooking a leg up to Harry’s hip and orienting himself so he was hovering over him.

“That makes sense,” Harry dimly heard himself say, focused entirely on the Slytherin above him.

“This is what we could have had in school, _Potter_ ,” Draco murmured, brushing his lips over the underside of Harry’s jaw.

Harry’s breath hitched, marveling at how only Draco could make his own last name sound and feel that erotic.

“Screaming fights…slamming each other against things…we were halfway there already, if you think about it,” Draco continued, mouthing along the column of skin of Harry’s neck.

“W-where we, _Malfoy_?”

“Oh, yes,” Draco purred. “If you only knew the sleepless nights I had…trying _not_ to think about you as I did all _sorts_ of things to myself…”

Harry moaned. “How’d that go?” he managed, the words intended to be suggestive and flirty but instead came out as a sort of breathless, choked sentence.

Draco laughed softly, the low chuckle reminding Harry irresistibly of velvet and chocolates, the cliché of it all hardly registering.

“It went _disastrously_ ,” he whispered, lifting his face up again to give Harry a searing kiss, finally pulling back with a groan.

“What?” Harry asked dazedly, mourning the loss of Draco’s mouth and sitting up with him.

“We can’t do anything, we have to go check on Griphook,” Draco informed him, standing up and shaking his head firmly.

“But…how long was I out?” Harry asked, confused. Had they not just left the goblin?

“Almost two hours,” Draco answered.

“Oh,” Harry replied, blinking. His head cleared as he thought about what he was going to say to Griphook, sorrowfully erasing any lingering arousal from his state and unfortunately recalling what had led to it all in the first place.

“You know, I don’t think we can just…hook up every time we fight,” Harry said, and Draco pouted.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll forget we were fighting!”

“That’s the point!”

Harry snorted. “I’m still mad at you. It’s all coming back now, you shouldn’t have interrupted what was happening.”

Draco sighed. “I’ll do well to remember it next time.” He paused, pursing his lips. “I still don’t understand why you’re mad. Just because I know more—“

Harry let out a frustrated breath. “You might know more. You might not. You might be just as misinformed as me—Draco, you can’t just _assume_ you always have the upper hand because you’re a pureblood.”

“It’s not a matter of prejudice, it’s a matter of logic!” Draco argued.

“Look,” Harry told him firmly, “I know you still have a lot of…philosophies that you’ve been raised to believe in. But the fact is that you still have a lot of bias when it comes to this sort of stuff. And yeah, you know more wizard history than I do. You grew up with magic and I didn’t know it was real. But we have the same level of official magical education. We both cast our first spell at age eleven. I am just as magical as you are.”

“I know that, but why can’t you see that I just have more innate knowledge and… _advantage_ when it comes to magic, and especially concerning the bedtime stories I grew up reading!”

“Well, you’ve already been proven wrong, haven’t you? I’ve shown you one of three Hallows, none of which you believed existed.”

Draco’s firm and exasperated expression fell a bit, his eyes darting away to where the Cloak lay on the floor.

“Ron’s a pureblood too,” Harry continued quietly, watching Draco carefully. “His mum read him those stories just like your parents did you. He has just enough reason to be skeptical or even downright disbelieving as you do, but he’s always trusted what I know. Or what Hermione knows. I want you to do the same. Trust me.”

Draco chewed on his lip, the last traces of resentment leaving his face.

“Trust you. I do. I trust you,” he finally said, nodding slowly. He shook himself, his eyes now determined. “So. Deathly Hallows—apparently _not_ for nutters.”

“Well, only nutters really want to have them,” Harry replied, but his heart twinged with shame as he thought again of the Stone, and how he would very much like to maybe have that one.

“And You-Know-Who, master of evil, now has the most powerful and dangerous one out of them all,” Draco concluded, his face calm and his tone factual. He might have been discussing taxes.

“That seems to be the case,” Harry answered.

Draco raised his eyebrows, nodding grimly. “That’s bad,” he said.

“Yes.”

“We’ve got to stop him.”

“We're trying,” Harry smiled weakly, remembering again the goblin downstairs.

“Right,” Draco said. “Let’s go, then?”

They made their way slowly downstairs in silence, Harry thinking the entire time about how he was going to ask Griphook to help them.

“It’ll be okay,” Draco whispered, and Harry realized he actually quite liked that sentiment coming from Draco.

He nodded in reply and took a deep breath before knocking on the door.

A soft but authoritative “come in” was their reply, and Harry pushed open the door to find Griphook sitting up in the bed, gazing out of the wide window Harry had made sure his room featured.

The obvious centerpiece of the scene, however, was the long silver weapon lying across the lap of the goblin—the Sword of Gryffindor. Harry’s breath caught. He knew the Sword had been lying in his and Draco’s room—Griphook must have snuck in while Harry was sleeping.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked, forcing his train of thought away and trying to recall any scrap of manners he was ever taught.

“Do you remember, Harry Potter, that it was I who showed you to your Gringotts vault when you were merely eleven?” Griphook inquired, as if Harry hadn’t spoken.

Harry blinked. _He_ had remembered this—he hadn’t thought Griphook would have.

“I do,” he answered. Griphook looked at him.

Harry recognized his stare immediately. It was an assessment not entirely unlike the one Dumbledore used to fix with him, but the goblin’s eyes were colder—the small black beads narrowed and calculating. He was sizing Harry up.

Harry lifted his chin, trying to show that he was unfazed by any theatrics Griphook thought he could manipulate Harry with. They stared at each other for a while, Draco standing silently in the background, obviously backing Harry up but not yet in the action. He was looking at Griphook as well, but the goblin had yet to even acknowledge his presence.

“You are an unusual wizard, Harry Potter.”

Harry heard a soft snort behind him and glanced at Draco, whose lips were curved in an amused smirk. He was looking absently at the ground, as if seeing something else.

“In what way?” Harry asked, turning back to Griphook.

“The elf, Dobby, speaks very highly of you,” Griphook said. “Not many house-elves speak well of those they are not in the service of.”

“Dobby’s at Shell Cottage?” Harry asked, distracted. “He didn’t go back to Hogwarts?”

“He was not allowed to return,” Griphook answered. “He had too much sensitive information.”

“Is he alright?” Harry pressed. Griphook continued to stare at him

“As I said, you are a very unusual wizard.”

“Right,” Harry replied. “Well—we need help. We have something that we need to do and you’re the only one who can help us.”

Harry held his breath as Griphook blinked slowly, sitting up a little straighter. The silence was ringing throughout the three of them, Harry becoming more and more unâsure by the second.

When the goblin continued to make no sign of encouragement, Harry decided to press on.

 _Here it is_ , he thought as he sucked in a breath.

“I need to break into a Gringotts vault,” he exhaled, his words rushing together as he watched Griphook fearfully for a reaction.

He glanced at Draco again, who was watching him instead of Griphook. His eyebrows were raised and he nodded subtly, winking sarcastically and flashing him a discreet thumbs up.

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes as his gaze returned to Griphook, who shifted, already shaking his head.

“Break into a Gringotts vault? It is impossible.”

“Is it, though?” Harry challenged, determined to sell this plan to the goblin. He fixed Griphook with a determined look, stepping closer to the bed. “Seven years ago, when you took me to my vault, there was a break in that same day. It’s been done!”

Griphook scowled, color rising in his face. “That was another manner entirely,” he snapped. Evidently, the mere suggestion that Gringotts was or had been weak enough for a robber to slip in and out undetected was on par with sacrilege. “The vault in question was empty, therefore its protection minimal. Nothing was even stolen.”

“Of course,” Draco spoke hurriedly for the first time, and Harry relaxed, shooting him a grateful look. “This is why we need your help so desperately. Gringotts is, bar none, the most secure place in the world and we need something from the heart of it.”

Harry caught on to the careful flattery, suddenly even more grateful Draco had decided to join him.

“The vault we need won’t be protected minimally,” Harry continued where Draco left off. “It’s going to be fitted with the most protection Gringotts can offer—absolutely impenetrable.”

“Which vault do you seek to open?”

Harry hesitated.

“My dear Aunt’s,” Draco drawled, coming to stand nearer to Harry. “The vault belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange.”

Watching Griphook, Harry rather thought Draco’s bold tone and choice of association made at least a slight impression on the goblin, but he soon began shaking his head again.

“You have told me that you know of the dangers that come with our most heavily guarded vaults,” he said. “Surely you know that you have no chance?”

Harry’s heart sank.

“ _If you seek beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours—“_

 _“Thief, you have been warned, beware…”_ Harry trailed off quietly, feeling the resurgence of his hopelessness.

“But we’re not trying to steal just because we like the way it would look on our mantle,” Draco said, sounding impatient. “We need one thing and it is key in winning this war, not for our own personal gain.”

“Can you believe that?” Harry asked, his tone still quiet.

Griphook stared at Harry for a few moments before his gaze came to rest on Draco, who was now standing at the foot of the bed. The blond blinked, standing up straight.

“The only thing I seek beneath your floors is what Harry says will help take… _him_ down. I promise,” he vowed solemnly, and Harry felt a swell of pride. He couldn’t stop the smile that formed on his face, and Draco met it with a quick but equally grateful one.

The goblin nodded once. “If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek personal gain,” Griphook answered finally, “it would be you, Harry Potter.”

Harry exhaled in relief, but saw Draco stiffen out of the corner of his eye.

“And if there was one wizard of whom I believe capable of immense change,” Griphook added, in a surprisingly kind gesture, “it would be you, young Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco’s lips parted, taken aback. His surprised features quickly settled in to one of gratitude and modesty, and he bowed his head and backed away in a show of respect.

“Goblins and elves are not used to the protection and the respect that you have shown,” Griphook said. “Not from wand-carriers.”

“Won’t you help us, then?” Draco asked, and it was easy to detect a note of pleading in his voice.

“The people who will treat you with respect, _those_ are the people fighting against You-Know-Who,” Harry added passionately, hoping this would be his driving point.

Griphook narrowed his eyes at them. “Is that so?” he hissed, his tone icy. “While it is true that the majority of respectful wizards may hail from the side you’re fighting, I have yet to be convinced that goblins will ever be treated as anything other than second-class citizens! Forever in the shadow of witches and wizards!”

“But—“

“I have seen protests against the people who kill your friends,” Griphook continued, settling back against the pillows. “I have seen people revolt and cry injustice when magical people are struck down unfairly. Who among the wand-carriers protest when crimes against golbins are elves are committed? Who, on either side, is fighting for us?”

“We are!” Harry argued, a sudden flash of pride for Hermione and her long campaign for other magical beings, not really understanding the importance until now. “What about Hermione Granger?”

“Being Muggle-born and being a goblin are quite different—“

“Not in this war,” Draco interjected. “Griphook, I’m sorry, but to them you’re all disposable. I have been on the other side of this war and I know what they think of everyone. Goblins and elves and Muggle-borns—they’re all worthless to him. You need to recognize that you have to join the side of the oppressed as one—we can’t afford to fight more wars. This is your best shot.”

Griphook watched Draco throughout his argument, his distasteful expression replaced, by the end, with a carefully neutral one.

“And what about you, then, Mr. Malfoy?” the goblin asked, his voice still cold. “You and your family locked me up and abused me for weeks before you had your convenient change of heart. How do I know you shall not be so fickle in the future?”

Harry opened his mouth angrily but Draco held up a hand, anger and shame brewing in his eyes.

“A second ago, you were telling me you believed I had changed,” Draco said calmly, though his voice was steely.

“I said I believed you were _capable_ of change,” Griphook corrected, a bit nastily. “ _Have_ you?”

Draco didn’t answer, just clenched his teeth and stared resolutely at Griphook. Harry realized Draco didn’t feel like he could answer for himself—regardless of what he might personally think.

“He has,” Harry told Griphook firmly, and the goblin’s eyes swiveled back to him. “His defect wasn’t a split-second decision. I know it had been a long time coming, but no one was paying attention,” he added softly, unable to restrain the regret from showing through his voice. He would have liked to see Draco’s expression, but ultimately kept his eyes locked with the goblin’s.

“If we win this war, we’re going to have to rebuild a whole new order of doing things,” Harry continued solemnly, the truth of his own words causing a flutter of anxiety and awe in his chest. “This new order is going to be one of absolute equality—and that’s not just between Muggle-borns and purebloods and half-bloods. Goblins and elves and other magical creatures—they won’t be overlooked anymore. I promise.”

Silence fell again, both Harry and Draco recognizing that their case had been made.

“Will you help us?” Harry asked quietly, after seemingly endless moments of uneasy stillness.

Griphook stared absently at them both, his eyes sliding slowly between them. When he did speak, his voice was almost sad.

“So young,” he said, “to be fighting so many.”

Draco and Harry glanced at each other, the hard and tired look of remembered suffering in both of their eyes. They both knew what this war would cost, but it was one thing to be aware of it somewhere in the back of your mind as you focus on other things. It was quite another to have it brought to light in front of you, slapping you in the face with your mortality.

And as Harry continued to stare at Draco, looking him over in a second that seemed an eternity long, he realized he now had one more thing to lose.

“I…will think about it,” Griphook replied finally, his tone verging on maddening.

Harry pursed his lips, exhaling quickly. He wanted nothing more than to protest, demand an answer from him now, make some last minute speech—but he felt a hand on his shoulder and sighed.

“Thank you,” Draco said sincerely, bowing his head again. Harry nodded.

They exited without further dismissal.

 

“Harry,” Draco said, as they were walking towards the kitchen for lunch, “he’s probably going to ask for something.”

Harry looked over at him, confused. “Would he do that?”

Draco nodded. “My family has worked with goblins before, in transactions and even cover-ups when the Ministry would do a round of searches all of a sudden. They always ask for something in return.”

“But this is different, isn’t it? This isn’t some scheming cover-up to avoid Azkaban,” Harry countered.

“No, of course not, it’s just blatant robbery,” Draco replied sarcastically, raising his eyebrows.

“For a good cause! Like Robin Hood,” Harry argued enthusiastically, moving immediately to the cupboards to find bread.

Draco blinked. “Like who?”

“Robin—oh, fuck, I forgot. Hermione usually gets my references,” Harry said, sighing and running a hand through his hair.

“Well, sorry,” Draco said, a bit stung and trying not to sound defensive. “Just explain it to me?”

Harry smiled wryly, apparently giving up on locating bread. He selected a brightly colored box with something called ‘fruit loops’ inside, throwing the box on the table and himself ungracefully into a chair.

Draco couldn’t help but smile too.

“Robin Hood,” Harry began, Summoning a plastic bowl (also purchased at the market) from the cabinet, “is a fictional character Muggles tell stories about. He was the leader of this group that stole from the rich and gave to the poor. He was the hero, trying to bring his friends and family out of poverty and rescue his girlfriend from the evil upper class of England.”

Harry poured the colorful circles into a bowl and started to eat it dry, picking a few ‘loops’ at a time and popping them into his mouth.

“Want a spoon?” Draco drawled, nodding towards Harry’s now-surely sticky fingers.

Harry glanced down unaffectedly at ‘lunch’. “I’m good,” he replied nonchalantly, bringing his hands to his mouth and licking the sugary particles off his fingers, his eyes innocently trained on Draco.

Draco swallowed and looked away, but not before he saw the smirk quirk up on Harry’s lips. _Now was definitely_ not _the time to do anything about_ that, he told himself firmly.

“How well do you think Griphook is going to react to your…Robin Hood mentality?” Draco asked, switching topics back to the matter at hand.

Harry shrugged. “If he feels so passionately about the well-being of his own people, I don't see why he shouldn't help us. It’s the best thing for all involved.”

Draco sighed. “I just don’t think goblins think that way,” he said.

“That’s what everyone said about Dobby,” Harry muttered.

Draco smiled sadly. “He was the worst house-elf we ever had,” he said, almost mournfully. Harry laughed.

“You’re welcome, then.”

“He was also my favorite,” Draco added, a bit quieter. Harry looked up at him in surprise.

“Why?”

Draco moved to take a seat across from Harry, shaking the hair from his face as he lowered himself down. He exhaled, the sad smile still in place.

“He talked about you,” he answered honestly. “I was the only one who would let him even mention you.”

Harry looked even more surprised, not saying anything in response. His lips were slightly parted, eyes wider than usual, fingers absently hovering over the rim of the bowl.

“Anyway,” Draco said, dropping his eyes and clearing his throat, “I still have some questions about this whole endeavor before we go back in there.”

Harry shook himself quickly, inhaling and nodding. “Yeah, of course.”

“Why do you think there’s a Horcrux in the vault?”

“It was actually when Bellatrix was questioning Griphook,” answered Harry, pushing the bowl out of his way. He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table, the same intent look in his eyes that he seemed to get whenever he was expressing or explaining something. “About the Sword, remember? She looked terrified because she thought we’d been in there.”

“Is…that all? We can’t break into Gringotts on just that, you know.”

“Well, I mean…think about the type of places he’d put a Horcrux. I mean, so far, it’s been one luxurious item after another—diary excluded, I guess—“

“—Wait,” Draco interrupted, his heart stopping as a sudden burst of realization hit him. “Tell me again the Horcruxes so far?”

Harry looked at him questioningly. “Um, the diary, the ring and the locket.”

“Slytherin’s locket,” Draco specified, and Harry nodded.

“I mean, it was his House, and Hogwarts was his home,” Harry said, getting the same uneasy and dark feeling he got whenever he was confronted by the sometimes startling similarities between him and Voldemort.

“You say Hogwarts was important to him,” Draco continued, “Important enough that he’d want treasures from the other founders, too?”

Harry sat up straighter, identity crises flying from his mind. “I’d think so, yeah…do you have an idea?”

Draco grinned. “I know for a _fact_ that Auntie Bella has Hufflepuff’s goblet in her personal vault.”

Harry’s eyes flew wide and he leapt up out of his seat, but there still seemed to be some containment around him, some barrier between him and true enthusiasm or relief, almost like he didn’t dare believe it.

“You think—“ he started, excitedly, but stopped abruptly at the sound of small footsteps down the hallway.

Griphook walked slowly into view, obviously not up to full physical ability but his condition better than Draco had originally perceived.

“Griphook,” Harry said, surprised. “Are you sure you should be…out of bed like this?”

“My room is just down the hall,” Griphook replied haughtily, and Harry flushed and looked away, mumbling an apology.

“Does this mean you’ve reached a decision?” Draco dared to ask, expecting some sort of reprimand from one or both of them. Instead, Harry’s eyes returned to Griphook and the goblin drew himself up to his full height, black eyes glittering mysteriously.

“Yes, young Mr. Malfoy. It does. I have decided to assist you in your endeavor.” Griphook announced, and Draco felt a rush of dizzying alleviation, fighting back the urge to smile at Harry. He nodded coolly and politely instead, allowing himself a most professional glance at his now literal partner in crime.

The relief was evident in Harry, as far as Draco’s perception went. To his credit, Harry put on a remarkable impression of solemn gratitude as he bowed his head in a clear imitation of Draco.

“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely.

“I have a request in return,” Griphook continued, almost unreceptive to Harry’s thanks.

Draco wanted to sigh and roll his eyes, and his chest tightened at the sudden anxiety in Harry’s eyes.

“I have gold,” Draco began, but Griphook held up a hand to quiet him.

“Not gold,” he said, and Draco shut his mouth, surprised. “I have gold.”

Draco and Harry glanced at each other, neither one of them opting to ask what exactly it was Griphook wanted, extremely cautious of making any sort of suggestion.

Griphook went on regardless.

“I want the Sword,” he said, eyeing both of them determinedly. “The Sword of Gryffindor.”

Draco closed his eyes, exhaling slowly before reopening them.

“You can’t have that,” Harry was saying, looking disbelievingly at Griphook, like he was half-expecting the goblin to be joking. “I’m sorry.”

Griphook stuck his chin out, his surprisingly expressive eyes becoming suddenly cold.

“Then I’m afraid we have a problem,” he replied, ominously cool.

“You can have anything else,” Harry pleaded, sounding desperate.

“I want nothing else,” Griphook snapped.

“The Sword is mine, Dumbledore left it to me—“

“Did you ever think that perhaps it was not his to give away?” Griphook hissed, glaring at him.

Draco grimaced, knowing where this was going.

“He was a Gryffindor, I am too, it was in his possession—“

“But before it was Gryffindor’s, whose was it?” Griphook demanded, his lips curling in a bitter smile.

Harry shook his head once, brow furrowing. He looked at Draco for help, at a temporary loss.

Griphook’s now steely gaze turned on him too, and he sighed, grudgingly recalling the anti-Gryffindor sentiment instilled in him at birth.

“Ragnuk the First’s,” he acquiesced quickly, and Harry’s eyes widened in something akin to horror. “But that’s…it’s a myth, there’s no historical proof—“

“There is only no proof because of those who tend to document it,” Griphook shot back, his tone pure ice. “This is my final offer. I imagine you would like time to consider it?”

Harry looked at him helplessly for a fraction of a second before he shook his head once.

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, we would.”

Griphook nodded stiffly and retreated.

Harry sighed deeply once the goblin was gone, his eyes falling shut.

Draco was wildly trying to think of a way around the deal—offering him something else obviously wouldn’t work, and neither would reneging on the deal completely.

“Come with me upstairs, and we can talk about it,” Harry said, and Draco nodded.

They made their way up to their room in silence, though Draco could practically hear the tired thoughts swirling inside Harry’s mind.

Harry went immediately to the bed, collapsing on it how he had hours before. He groaned, flopping over again so he was facing the ceiling.

Draco climbed slowly onto the mattress as well, watching Harry, and chose an ending corner to sit in, leaning against a bedpost for support.

They enjoyed another few moments of silence, Harry not knowing where to begin and Draco waiting for him to set the conversation going.

“Did…did Gryffindor really steal the Sword?” Harry asked quietly, after a while of stressing out the ceiling.

Draco sighed, trying to be careful with how he answered.

He had always been of the thinking that Godric Gryffindor, and therefore, all Gryffindors, were just manipulative as Slytherins could be, without any of the finesse or intelligence. The pureblood aristocracy and the goblin’s recalling of their interspecies history paralleled in few places, but the Sword of Gryffindor was one area that they seemed to agree.

“Technically,” Draco began, leaning his head against the surprisingly comfortable wooden post, “that is still considered a goblin legend as opposed to wizard fact.”

Harry nodded, but he didn’t look satisfied. “I get the feeling that ‘goblin legend’ potentially seems to include a lot of wizard history no one wants to talk about,” he said bitterly.

“That’s true,” Draco admitted. “And…I understand this might kind of mess with your image of Godric Gryffindor. But you also have to stop seeing people as good or evil. The world isn’t made up of two categories; not everything is so binary…what?”

Draco had to stop as saw Harry gazing at him with a strange mixture of awe and sadness. It was almost disconcerting, as Draco had no idea what he had said.

“That’s what Sirius said,” Harry said, a bit thickly, and fell silent. His gaze eventually turned back to the ceiling.

Draco didn’t really know what to say to that.

“I—yes, well,” he stammered, deciding to skip the words of condolence. That was not the way to get through to Harry. “Maybe it’s time you stop recognizing people as polar opposites. Gryffindor and Slytherin were very much alike. One wasn’t light and one wasn’t dark—one wasn’t pure and one wasn’t corrupted.”

“Slytherin was—“

“Slytherin is remembered unfavorably, but that doesn’t mean he was…well, You-Know-Who.” Draco cut off Harry’s protest. “Harry, when you look at me, do you see all thinks pure and holy? Do you see a person without blemishes? Without mistakes, without the tendency to be a complete prat?”

Harry’s eyes snapped back to him at that, his eyebrows raised.

“I hope you don’t,” Draco said. “Because that’s not me, and I hope that’s not the person you think you love.”

“Draco,” Harry interjected, looking almost offended at the accusation. “I don’t love some weird, perfect, idealized version of you. Of course I don’t love _that_ you, I love _you_ you.”

“Relatively eloquent,” Draco snorted.

“You’re a prat,” Harry said affectionately, grinning at Draco.

“Glory, glory hallelujah.”

“There you go with the surprising Muggle knowledge again,” Harry sighed, lying back down and shaking his head. “And you didn’t even know what Fruit Loops were.”

“They’re a blight on the definition of breakfast, that’s what they are.”

“Oh my god, I can’t deal with your weird cereal aversion right now,” Harry groaned, a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth, but Draco sobered immediately.

“Right,” he said, grimacing in the reminder of Griphook. “Planning a robbery.”

“I can’t let him have the Sword,” Harry said firmly.

“Why is the Sword…so important? Did you say it would destroy the Horcruxes?” Draco asked.

“Oh, yeah—forgot I still haven’t told you everything,” Harry answered sheepishly. “The blade is infused with basilisk venom from…er, my second year.”

“Right,” Draco said simply.

They were silent again, both of them feeling dimly guilty at trying to find a loophole to Griphook’s offer.

“We can’t just give him something else, let him have his pick?” Harry suggested half-heartedly.

“He’d never agree to that,” Draco replied, shaking his head. “He wants what he thinks is his.”

“He _wants_ one up on us,” Harry muttered darkly. As if the words had triggered something in his mind, he shot straight up.

“I have an idea,” he announced uneasily, his eyes darting to the door. “But…it’s not a very _nice_ thing to do.”

Draco raised his eyebrows.

“How about…we give him the sword,” he began hesitantly, “but we don’t tell him exactly _when_ we’ll hand it over.”

Draco felt his eyebrows raise even harder, a surprised and even vaguely proud smirk slowly spreading on his face.

“Why, _Harry_ ,” he drawled in a hushed voice, eyes flashing. “How very _Slytherin_ of you.”

“I didn’t say I liked it,” Harry shot back, flushing immediately.

“You still thought of it, though.”

“Yeah, well. Do you think we should do it?”

Draco nodded. “I think it’s our best option.”

Harry sighed, lying back down. “I was almost Sorted into Slytherin,” he says casually, causing Draco to bark a startled laugh.

“Bullshit,” he replied, almost instantly.

Harry smiled. “I was only in Gyrffindor because I asked to be,” he continued, showing no other indication he had heard Draco’s exclamation.

“Why did you?”

Harry shrugged. “I’d heard better things about Gryffindor. And not-so-good things about Slytherin.”

Draco scoffed. “That’s it?” he asked skeptically.

“Um,” Harry laughed nervously, shaking the bangs out of his eyes. “Well, the main thing was that… _you_ were Sorted into Slytherin.”

Draco laughed again, Harry’s confession somehow making him feel a rush of some perverse pride.

“ _That_ backfired,” he said, grinning. “Imagine the power couple we could have made!”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You think so?”

“The Slytherin Princes,” Draco replied, eyeing Harry mysteriously and rolling his hands dramatically.

Harry made a face. “If you had even once suggested that seriously I would have left you.” He tried to say it sternly, but the effect was lessened by him giggling through the words, watching Draco’s rather soap opera-y attempts at eye sex.

“We would have been unstoppable,” Draco sighed, still smirking. “Pity you were so impressionable, Potter.”

“Pity you were such a prat, Malfoy.”

“Yeah,” Draco agreed, smile slipping off his face. He sighed quietly, not for effect this time, looking at a spot on the floor. “Pity.”

 

“So we are in agreement?” Griphook said, in his place in bed again, looking intimidatingly at them both.

“You may have the Sword,” Harry affirmed, fighting his face to remain utterly guiltless even as shame coursed through him. “If you help us break into Gringotts, of course.”

Griphook nodded. “Then we have a deal,” he said, arching one eyebrow. “Let us begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I only have a quick note:
> 
> 1\. Yes, Dobby lives in this story! It’s entirely because I had to Stun Bellatrix to be able to get Draco and Harry out—rendering her incapable of throwing the knife at Dobby.
> 
> As always, leave me a comment below if you have questions or...well, comments!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is really long, clocking in at almost 10,000 words! I'm amazing.  
> This is another plot-central lengthy chapter, just like the last one. Sorry if that’s not your thing—we get more emotional in Chapter 9 :)
> 
> Onwards!

“Sweet Merlin, do I smell bacon?”

Draco smiled to himself at the sound of Harry’s voice, still muddled with sleep. He flipped the bacon around with the spatula, trying to get it thoroughly cooked.

“Yes,” he replied, throwing a wink over his shoulder.

“God, I love you,” Harry sighed, flopping down into a chair.

Draco laughed, reddening. “Only for my bacon?”

He slid the three pieces onto a little plate and placed it in front of Harry, who kissed him quickly in thanks.

“What have you eaten?” Harry asked him, cautiously picking up a still sizzling piece and yanking his hand back, yelping.

“I’ve— _careful_ , you idiot, that’s still hot—I’ve eaten something,” he answered vaguely.

“Well, what was it?”

Draco sighed, trying to hide his blush. “Eggs.”

“No it wasn’t.”

Draco looked round at him, trying to look affronted. “Yes it was!”

“You had to think about your answer,” Harry replied, smirking. “I think I know what you ate.”

“Toast. Eggs and toast.”

“I think you had Froot Loops.” 

Draco’s mouth popped open, trying to put on his best face of outrage.

“Like I would touch—“

“Look, I haven’t been eating them _that_ much and our stock is rapidly depleting.”

“Maybe—“

“Draco, I know _Griphook_ hasn’t eaten any Froot Loops.”

Draco sniffed and turned back to the pan, glaring at Harry when he heard the boy snicker behind him.

It wasn’t _his_ fault that the Muggles had somehow evolved their breakfast making to be some sugary, addictive narcotic for children.

“What have I not eaten?”

Both boys jumped and turned to face Griphook, who had entered the kitchen silently and unnoticed.

Draco hid a grimace. Griphook had taken to these silent and sudden entries whenever he could, feeling like the surprise added to his general unsettling nature, giving him the upper hand in their conversation. To be fair, it really was a brilliant power play.

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly. “It was—I was just messing with Draco.”

Griphook looked at him disapprovingly before Draco cleared his throat.

“Do you have something to tell us?” he asked, intentionally letting a glimmer of irritation into his words. He had let his guard down considerably over the last few weeks Griphook had been with them, seeing that the goblin remained unperturbed by his presence.

“Yes, I have,” Giphook answered him, pretending to be oblivious to Draco’s tone. He took a seat at the end of the table, looking expectantly at Draco.

Harry eyed him pointedly, and Draco sighed, taking a reluctant seat across from Harry.

Griphook nodded, placing his hands on the table.

“I have spent the last two weeks teaching you about every sort of defense we have in place at Gringotts,” he began. “I do not know of a way to dismantle the precise curse that has been placed upon Bellatix Lestrange’s vault—but it shouldn't matter if we get to that point peacefully and with the assist of an official Gringotts goblin.”

“And assuming we don’t?” Harry interjected.

“I haven’t been able to find anything on it—nothing Granger packed has anything on that sort of curse.” Draco sighed. “I guess we’ll just have to be careful.”

“We are counting on getting past the curse, though, right?” Harry asked, turning to Griphook. “It won’t affect us if the vault doesn’t think we’re trying to steal something?”

Griphook nodded. “Which brings me to my next point,” he said. “I assume you both have realized that you cannot just walk into Gringotts as Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.”

Harry nodded, sitting up straighter. “We have Polyjuice Potion—“

“And whose disguise are you adopting?” Griphook interrupted him. “Do you happen to have the hairs of Bellatrix Lestrange?”

“What do you suggest, then?” Draco snapped.

Griphook’s eyes swiveled to him. “It is Gringotts policy that only the owner of the treasure and their spouse are able to make a retrieval. However, if both the owner and spouse are unavailable, permission _may_ be granted to non-familial member sent to retrieve something.”

“But we don’t have _any_ hairs of anyone,” Harry replied.

“There is a man,” Griphook told him, “that runs a very successful and _secretive_ illegal potions trade. His specialty is modifying potions so that it works in a slightly different way than originally intended—in our case, the Polyjuice Potion. He may be able to modify it enough to use Draco’s hair to make him look like Lucius Malfoy.”

“ _Really_?” Harry asked excitedly, brightening considerably at the new advancement.

Draco flashed him a quick smile but sat back, an uneasy feeling stirring in his gut.

It was all too _real_ , all of a sudden—the symbolism of the whole thing seeming to slap him in the face. It was ridiculous and angsty and absurd—and he’d never mention it to Harry—but the prospect of literally becoming his father was not something he was looking forward to.

 _Quit whining_ , Draco berated himself. _Just avoid mirrors. Easy._

“Wait,” Harry was saying slowly. “Is he—do you know if he’s using _Muggle science_ for this?”

Both Griphook and Draco looked at him in surprise, the latter shaken out of his troubling thoughts.

“What does that have anything to do with magic?” Draco asked him, brow furrowed.

“I do not know the intricacies of his magic,” Griphook answered him coolly. “Potions have never been something goblins have ever cared for.”

“Well, never mind, it’s not that important,” Harry sighed quickly.

Draco pursed his lips in sympathy. It seemed like today would be one of the goblin’s more sensitive ones—and he was a nightmare to work with in a bad mood.

“As I was saying, you must meet with him to obtain the modified version as soon as possible—he is Muggle-born, and I assume only tolerated because of his unique skillset. It is only a matter of time before someone decides his bloodline overshadows his trade—they can always torture the ability out of him.” Griphook carried on, seemingly unaware how both boys cringed at his cold tone.

“When should we go?” Draco interrupted finally.

Griphook glared at him. “I suggest tomorrow. We can spend today and plan it out, but it should be relatively simple—really, only Mr. Malfoy needs to go—“

“No,” Harry protested immediately, shaking his head. “He is absolutely not going alone.”

Draco bit back a smile.

“Harry Potter, it would be unwise—“

“He is going with me or it doesn’t happen,” Harry said firmly, shrugging. “I don’t care how stubborn you are, or how much you want your way, but in this? We do it my way.”

Draco’s breath caught as he gazed at Harry, both amused and a bit in awe. Harry was fearlessly staring down the goblin, who was looking coldly back at him.

“I suppose love makes fools of even the strongest of us,” Griphook replied finally, not looking away from Harry’s blazing green eyes.

Draco swallowed as he watched Harry’s jaw clench in response.

“That means, of course, that we have to decide upon how you both get in and out of Knockturn Alley unnoticed. I suggest Glamour Charms.”

Harry’s furiously determined expression fell to one of unease as he glanced at Draco.

“Um, Hermione usually did those,” Harry muttered sheepishly.

Griphook didn’t even try to hide his smirk.

“I can do them,” Draco announced, smiling pleasantly at the goblin.

“Very well,” the goblin replied sourly. “I shall give you the name of the man in the morning before you leave. I think it is time for my morning walk.”

Both Harry and Draco stood with Griphook, allowing him to leave the room before they broke their silence.

“Didn’t know you were so protective, Harry,” Draco smirked.

“I guess I have a lot of people to protect,” Harry replied absently, casting a cursory glance Draco’s way. The smirk on Draco’s face slipped off as Harry ran a hand through his hair. He sat back down and sighed, leaving Draco standing there awkwardly.

“I’m not helpless,” Draco offered, not sure what else to say.

Harry suddenly looked so much older.

Draco didn't like this. He didn’t like when Harry didn’t look like a seventeen year old boy anymore, didn’t like when his eyes were red and tired and he felt the weight of everyone who depended on him.

And now Draco felt guilty for being part of all that, for forcing himself on Harry in an act he had initially thought was heroic and noble. A sacrifice for love, something everyone good can appreciate.

And it _was_ good, and romantic—the stuff of fairytales. But Draco couldn’t delude himself into thinking he was worth Harry’s extra heartache, and he knew that there was nothing glorious in the way Harry now had to shield him, to protect him with his life.

It was terrifying.

And it was his fault, and his duty to minimize it. Short of leaving, which was an obviously idiotic move (and an already exhausted option, actually), the only thing Draco could think of to do was to reassure him…what, that it was all alright? A nicely vague lie he wouldn’t fall for?

He had complicated Harry’s life, undoubtedly, but he had also vowed to be a part of it. He had vowed his loyalty, his love. The best thing Draco could do was to reassure Harry that he would never be alone again.

Dragging a chair right next to Harry’s, he sat down in it with a sedative breath. He tried to keep the worry that he felt out of his expression, knowing it was the last thing Harry would want to see. Instead, he kept his face calm and loving, drawing an arm around Harry’s shoulders and bringing him closer. Harry’s eyes closed and he let out a breath, inadvertently relaxing.

Draco leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s temple, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he rested his head in the crook of Harry’s neck.

Harry let him hold him silently for a second before he twisted suddenly, grabbing Draco’s face and lunging forward to kiss him.

Draco made a noise, startled, but recovered quickly. His mind seemed to unwind with relief as he kissed Harry back, recognizing with a thrill of anticipation the shift in their intimacy.

They broke apart, realizing simultaneously that nothing could be done (comfortably) in a kitchen chair, especially with a goblin roaming freely in unknown parts of the house.

Harry grabbed his hands and pulled him to the stairs, hopping on the first one before whirling around to kiss him again, resulting in a giggle from Draco as he reached blindly for the banister, trying to pull himself onto Harry’s level.

He succeeded, finally, and pressed Harry against the railing for good measure, kissing him deeply and running a hand over his torso.

Harry pushed back, blushing at the sight of Draco’s grin.

“We can’t have sex on the stairs,” he said decisively, looking at Draco firmly, face flushed and chest rising and falling dramatically.

“We can _try_ ,” Draco countered, leaning in again.

Harry laughed and turned his head, pulling Draco up one more step.

“Anything’s possible,” Draco continued, letting himself be led.

“Not everything should be attempted,” Harry pointed out wisely.

“Astute observation, Potter.”

 

They finally made it up the stairs with the suddenly remembered tool of Apparation, falling against the doorway to their room and dissolving into giggles.

“You can do a lot of things successfully but I think you meet your match with staircases,” Harry heard Draco say from where the boy was draped over him, body shaking with laughter.

Harry snorted. “Maybe You-Know-Who should just put the Horcrux at the top of a huge staircase and tell me to go for it,” he speculated, enjoying Draco’s sputter of laughter.

He breathed out, still grinning, and hugged Draco tighter.

Draco calmed then, his laughs quieting as he sighed, pulling back to look Harry over. He seemed happy as his eyes returned to Harry’s, the two of them standing silently in their embrace.

Harry reached a hand out and traced the curve of Draco’s soft smile with his index finger, feeling his own smile grow as he did it.

“I’m here with you,” Draco reminded him quietly, gazing at Harry with a peaceful kind of solemnness. “You don’t have to feel like you’re on your own.”

“I don’t feel alone,” Harry promised him.

Draco nodded, seeming satisfied. “Now, I know you said we can’t have sex on the _stairs_ , but…”

Harry laughed and kissed him again.

 

Night fell quickly, which saw both of them retiring early. Harry, however, was having more trouble actually falling asleep than Draco, who was sleeping very soundly next to him.

He told himself that his insomnia was due to the early hour, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully believe it. He knew it was due more to the boy beside him than an irregular sleep schedule, especially since Harry considered himself to be a fairly adaptable sleeper.

Simply put, he was worried for Draco. He felt guilty for loving him so suddenly and angry at himself for doing it so quickly.

Was it in his nature to care too much, too quickly? Draco had rescued him from certain death and in return, Harry put him into even more danger by _falling in love_ with the damn Slytherin.

He knew Draco would roll his eyes and tell him how ridiculous he was being, and honestly, Harry knew that he was right.

He also couldn’t deny that nagging sense of guilt, and it was what was currently keeping him from sleep.

 _Draco loves you too_ , he told himself. _He did this because he loves you. He wouldn’t have it any other way._

He sighed. It was true, and somehow he still felt like he didn’t fully believe it. It had been weeks, why couldn’t he still believe it within himself? He saw it in Draco every day, he heard it from Draco just as often.

 _He loves you_ , he thought, finally feeling the edge of slumber poke at the edges of his mind. _He loves you._

 

_His first sight was of Draco, crouched and weak against the same wall he remembered vividly Narcissa cowering against, an undeterminable amount of time ago._

_His body flooded with panic. What was this? Weren’t they just—_

_“Draco,” a cold voice hissed, and Harry felt a tug of nausea as he recognized both the voice and the figure that floated into view. “Draco, Draco, Draco.”_

_Draco made no indication that he heard Voldemort, other than an unconscious flinch at each intonation of his name._

_“You’ve been so disappointing, Draco,” Voldemort told him, standing still so his back was to Harry. “I expected you to be weak—just like your father—but I did not expect you to go so far with it.”_

_Draco’s jaw clenched and he continued to stare at the floor._

_“Falling in love with Harry Potter,” Voldemort simpered, the tone malicious and frightening in his cold voice. “So fitting, isn’t it? I imagine you felt very—poetic.”_

_Draco trembled._

_“He’ll come for you,” Voldemort continued. “And he’ll die.”_

_A short jerk of his head was all the response Draco gave._

_“Ah,” Voldemort breathed quietly, seemingly delighted. “That’s not what you’re really afraid of.”_

_Draco opened his mouth defensively, but shut it quickly again._

_“Maybe he won’t come for you,” Voldemort speculated. “He’ll live, that way. Maybe he’ll decide it’s not worth it.”_

_Silence from the boy on the floor._

_“Either way, people die.”_

_Draco closed his eyes._

_“Such is the way with Harry Potter.”_

Harry was shaken awake, his eyes flying open to see Draco pinning him down, a terrified look on his face.

“Harry, you were shaking,” Draco whispered, letting him sit up. “Are you—did you have another vision?”

“A fake one,” Harry replied, rubbing his scar. “He’s warning me. Baiting me.”

“Who…who was it?”

Harry sighed, bringing his eyes to meet Draco’s. He scooted closer to him and leaned against him, resting his forehead on Draco’s shoulder.

“You,” he replied. “That’s how I knew it wasn’t real, but…I mean, _god_ , it could have been.”

“Well,” Draco said, wrapping one hand around Harry’s shoulders and the other trailing up and down Harry’s back, “the Occlumency offer is still on the table.”

Harry sat up, his face grim.

“I think I’ll take you up on that, then.”

“Alright,” Draco nodded, throwing off the covers. “Let’s start.”

“What, now?”

“I don’t think it would be optimal for you to have another episode tonight. You can at least learn some of the basics.”

Harry looked around, his memory of Snape’s lessons in fifth year contrasting greatly with this.

“Here?”

“Occlumency involves a high degree of mental and emotional control, and the easiest way to have control over your mind and body is if you’re comfortable,” Draco explained, lighting a candle with his wand.

This was news to Harry. “Snape dragged me down to the dungeons in the early hours of the morning and threw me in a chair,” he recalled, raising his eyebrows.

Draco’s lips parted. “Well, that was wrong of him,” he answered neutrally. “He treated me differently.”

“I’d imagine,” Harry muttered darkly.

Draco stood up, yawning widely.

“This can wait until the morning, or when we get back from Knockturn Alley tomorrow,” Harry told him, feeling a twinge of guilt as Draco yawned again.

“No,” replied Draco, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes, “this really should happen now.”

“Let me go…wash my face or something, I don’t feel like I can do this right this second,” Harry said, rubbing his eyes.”

Draco nodded.

 

“It’s probably best if you’re sitting,” he said. “Do you feel relaxed?”

“As relaxed as I can get right now,” he replied.

“Fair enough. Do you feel in control? You don’t feel like you’re somewhere else or you’re not thinking clearly?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Then the first thing you need to learn is how to empty your mind, and then how to let it stay empty.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“I figured it wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”

“Piss off,” Harry laughed, kicking his legs towards Draco.

Draco cleared his throat, forcing the smile off of his face. “Clearing your mind.” he resumed, walking around to the front of Harry, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking openly up at Draco. He looked remarkably young. “What works for me is usually thinking of something calming, then concentrating on one specific, simple thought. It’s easier to think of nothing when you don’t have to try and clear away all these thoughts at once.”

Harry nodded, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

“So the purpose of Legilimency is to invade the mind and access information.” Draco said, his voice low and calming. “Occlumency is someone blocking that information from the Legilimens, and the easiest way to do this is to try and stop the thought from ever coming to the forefront of your mind.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Well, I’m about to help you practice.”

Harry sighed and nodded once more.

“Think about carrots. Everything you know about carrots,” Draco instructed.

Harry opened his eyes. “What?”

“This is essentially what Legilimency is,” Draco explained. “Except it’s never something as innocent as carrots. Someone is trying to get at _something,_ and you can’t let them. Now, the next time I tell you to think about carrots, _don’t_ think about carrots. Don’t think about anything, ideally, but _especially_ don’t think about carrots.”

“No carrots. Carrots bad. Got it.”

Draco smiled. “Alright. Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Then think about carrots.”

“Wait—fuck!”

Draco laughed. “Did you?”

Harry sighed, sounding frustrated. He opened his eyes, frowning. “It was just the word,” he said. “I was telling myself not to, but then you said _carrots_ and I thought about carrots.”

“It’s hard,” Draco agreed. “Took me months and even now it’s still not a guarantee. People spend years studying these fields, dedicate their entire careers and lives to it. You’re not going to get it tonight.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

“Practice clearing your mind for tonight. Getting rid of big thoughts that keep you awake is good exercise.” Draco concluded, walking back around to the other side of the bed.

“What, that’s it?”

“For tonight. You shouldn’t do anything big or really exhausting regarding mental magic when you’re tired, or stressed.”

“I’m not!”

“Yes, you are,” Draco replied factually, sliding into bed.

Harry sighed again and shifted back next to Draco.

“Maybe I am.”

Draco turned his head on the pillow to look at Harry, who was staring, unseeing, off into the dark room.

“You’re thinking,” Draco said, only lightly chastising.

“It’s hard not to,” Harry replied.

Draco scooted closer. “Come here,” he said gently, stretching an arm out and nudging Harry’s shoulder. “I’m not going to tolerate you lying there sighing all night. Come here, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes flitted to him for a moment before he complied, curling into Draco’s side.

“Just relax. I know you’re tired.”

“I can’t…I don’t know what to focus on,” Harry said, his tone quiet and frustrated.

Draco smiled, kissing the top of Harry’s head.

“Just think about carrots.”

 

 

That next morning marked exactly three weeks since Draco had escaped with Harry.

Each wasn’t sure if the other noticed, or remembered, but they both noted it silently and with a sort of awe.

More important than a trivial anniversary, however, was the pressing manner of going into the heart of Wizarding England (well, short of the Ministry) and then directly into the sketchiest part of it: Knockturn Alley.

Harry, by now well used to these sorts of things, went through the first half of the day with a routine into-the-fray state of mind and manner.

Draco, however, was busy trying not to let Harry see how nervous he was—he was dreading Gringotts now more than ever.

The afternoon arrived much too quickly for both of them, and Draco’s limbs felt tingly and tense as he listened to Griphook reiterate their instructions and directions.

Harry was nodding like he was trying to commit every word to memory, often repeating words or names back to check the accuracy. Draco relaxed a bit watching him, confident in Harry’s ability to pull these things off well.

Most of the time.

“I guess we should get going,” Harry said, coming over to stand next to Draco.

Griphook nodded from his seat at the kitchen table.

“And once you are through the Leaky Cauldron, where do you head first?”

“The pathway behind Borgin and Burkes’. We should encounter the least amount of people that way.” Harry replied.

Griphook nodded again.

“Get on with your Glamour charms and go.”

Draco took out his wand at Griphook’s instruction, turning to Harry and studying his features as Griphook exited silently.

“And you’re sure you know how to do this?” Harry asked, laughing uneasily.

Draco shook his head in mock disappointment. “How little faith you have in me.”

He walked right up to Harry, touching his hair and nose, lifting his chin and deciding on a course of action.

Harry held his breath and eyed Draco nervously.

“Alright,” Draco said finally, “I’m doing your hair first.”

Harry held surprisingly still as Draco first lightened the shade to a sort of dry dirt color as opposed to Harry’s normal jet-black. He lightened his eyebrows too, grimacing as the effects took place.

He still looked like Harry, but the inelegant hair color didn’t exactly suit him. Draco probably would have found it funny in different circumstances, but he hadn’t felt like laughing all morning.

“That bad?” Harry ventured, smiling weakly at Draco.

“No,” Draco lied quickly. “It’s just different. Don’t, um, dye your hair this color, though. Ever.”

Harry nodded, not seeming to care in the slightest.

“Be still.”

“Yes, sir.”

Draco lengthened and straightened his hair with a simple holding charm that Harry seemed absolutely fascinated with.

“Eye color next. I’m going with a simple brown,” Draco informed him, and Harry shrugged. “Be still.”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

With Harry’s eyes now a fairly nice shade of nut-brown, Draco shortened and rounded his nose, making him resemble a sort of small animal. This time, it actually succeeded in making Draco laugh.

“I’m probably still better looking than you,” Harry grinned, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, Potter. Hand me your glasses,” Draco instructed, and Harry obliged. “I’m going to Transfigure them rather than attempt to fix your eyesight even temporarily.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Well, no, that’s why I’m not going to try and do it.”

“You have quite the attitude when you’re nervous,” Harry observed, without a trace of irritation.

“I’m not nervous,” Draco defended himself immediately.

“Of course not.”

“I’m not!”

“We’ll be fine,” Harry told him, taking his now square glasses from Draco’s hands.

“Yeah.”

A moment of silence passed, Draco absently lengthening random strands of Harry’s hair.

“You’ve got to do your Glamour now,” Harry said, changing the topic. “Are you sure you can do it by yourself?”

“I promise you that I’m fully capable of everything this requires,” Draco snapped, and Harry sighed.

“Okay, fine. I’ll fix our clothes, and leave you to it.”

Draco nodded, pushing down the guilt he already felt at how he was behaving. Now was not the time for self-analysis: he and Harry both had jobs to do.

He Conjured up a mirror, facing his reflection with a clear mind and a steady hand.

He may not be exactly equipped for dangerous and heroic war missions, but he was well-trained in the face of emotional deceit, even when it was directed at himself.

 

Harry didn’t recognize Draco at first, his mind so consumed with thoughts of the temperamental blond that his hand jumped immediately to his wand at the sight of the dark haired and bearded man that walked into their room.

“Holy _fuck_ , Draco, what did you do?” he exclaimed, even though he knew the question was a stupid one.

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s not permanent,” he answered. “I know it looks bad, but I’m not trying to win any contests here.”

Harry realized with a touch of amusement that Draco was actually self-conscious about his new appearance, his lips pouting and eyes shifting from Harry to the floor.

“I’m just not used to it,” Harry assured him, picking the newly-Transfigured clothing off of the bed. “I bet you’d certainly win affections somewhere in the north of Russia.”

Draco snorted.

“Perhaps a Durmstrang Professor?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Snape’s father, then.”

“Potter!”

Harry laughed, throwing Draco some clothes.

“We need to decide on names,” he said, as they both began to undress.

“I’ll call you…Smith,” Draco shrugged.

“Alright, and you can be Vladimir.”

“Potter.”

“Fine! You can be…Joe…Joseph,” Harry decided.

“Alright, Smith and Joseph.” Draco nodded.

“Partners in Crime,” Harry added, winking. He turned away again when he saw the anxious grimace Draco gave him in response.

Draco cleared his throat, his heart beating faster. “So. We’re ready?”

“I think so,” Harry replied, stuffing Hermione’s purse and his wand into his back pocket. He walked over to stand beside Draco, who silently offered his arm.

“Wait,” Harry said, and Draco turned his head in inquiry to see Harry land a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Draco tensed immediately at the contact, but finally gave in to his mind telling him to relax and let himself smile at Harry, no holds barred.

Harry grinned back, then cleared his throat and shook his head.

“You can't look at me like that, it’s throwing me off!”

“What, the beard?”

“The beard is the least of my concerns. I mean, it’s not great, but I meant that we can’t walk down Knockturn Alley giggling and swinging hands,” Harry reasoned, and Draco sighed in acquiescence.

“Alright, I see your point,” he replied, nodding and putting on his intimidating mask of no emotion. He stuck out his hand. “Well, I look forward to working with you, Smith.”

Harry took it, unsmiling. “And I you, Joseph.”

Draco offered his arm once more Harry took it formally, both of them Disapparating with a crack.

 

They appeared in another alleyway beside the boarded-up shop they knew was The Leaky Cauldron, both of them looking around furtively to see if they had alarmed any Muggle passerby. Other than scaring a stray cat, however, they appeared to have done no harm.

Harry and Draco both took off their cloaks (previously two of Harry’s shirts) and slung them over their arm, having agreed to blend in as well as possible until they were among wizarding kind again.

They walked out of the alleyway together, looking and feeling uncomfortable as they surveyed the random London street.

They were getting strange looks from passerby, probably regarding their dismal surroundings in contrast with their old-fashioned formal attire, but neither of them paid them any mind. They were too busy staring at the morose scene in front of them.

Though it could not compare with the damage evident in the Wizarding world, it was all too easy to see the tendrils of Voldemort’s reign seeping into his helpless targets. Even the weather was drab and dark in a way that seemed entirely too fitting to be purely coincidental, but the haggard-looking Muggles barely even glanced up at the ominous sky, quickly passing each other as though they were well-used to all of it and afraid to stop and stand still for more than a second.

The buildings looked empty and the stores looked sad in a way that seemed as though the entire country was in a depression, more businesses than there should be seemingly closed or abandoned.

And all of them had no idea the cause of their misery—that was the side of the whole thing that was the most saddening. None of these people had a personal Satan they could blame for shitty weather—not even the Prime Minister could control that. They had no World War or dictator that they knew to fight against, no one that could possibly be responsible for this despair.

“We’ve got to keep going,” Harry heard Draco whisper at his side, and he nodded in response, trying to clear his head.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” he muttered to Draco as they walked up to the beaten and wooden door of the shop.

Draco looked at him sadly. “You haven’t seen Diagon Alley yet, have you?”

“I saw it sixth year before school started,” Harry responded, the memory still strong in his mind.

Draco’s face turned grim. “I saw it a month ago,” he replied, and pushed the door open.

The din of hushed and dull conversation gradually silenced as Harry and Draco were spotted. Even though the Glamour did well to hide their identity, there was a moment of heart-stopping terror as they both waited for someone to recognize them.

The only glances they met, however, were ones of confusion and vague suspicion, what Harry supposed was a normal response to the presence of strangers in such dark times.

“Can I help you gentlemen?”  Tom the barman asked loudly, in a tone that clearly stated that he was the one in charge here. The “who the fuck are you” question was hidden within his polite words as well, and Harry got the hint immediately.

“Are you the owner here?” Harry asked, using every intimidation tactic he knew. He lifted his chain and straightened his posture, catching Draco’s almost unperceivable nod of approval out of the corner of his eye.

“I am,” Tom affirmed, coming out from behind the bar and walking between the tables. The entire pub was still watching the exchange with caution and interest.

“We’re just looking for passage through to Diagon Alley,” Draco told him, gesturing to the back of the pub.

Tom looked them both up and down. “Who are you?” he finally asked, a bit gruffly.

“My name is Joseph. Joeseph Alastar,” Draco replied, sticking out his hand.

“Call me Smith,” Harry added. “Lyell Smith, but everyone just says Smith.”

“You don’t seem like you’re local,” Tom observed.

Harry glanced around at Draco, not sure of what answer to give.

Draco drew himself up and put on his haughtiest expression, one Harry hadn’t the pleasure of seeing for a long time.

“My colleague and I might take offense to that,” he responded coldly, and Harry hastily turned his gaze back on to Tom, trying to look perhaps offended.

A flicker of worry seemed to pass over Tom’s face before he recovered his composure, bowing his head stiffly but politely.

“My apologies to the both of you.”

“Coincidentally,” Draco continued, in the same cool tone, “My partner and I happen to be visiting from the North. We have business in Diagon Alley, I hope you’ll excuse us?”

Tom looked them both over again as Harry, Draco and the pub waited for his response.

“Of course,” he allowed finally, stepping aside. Draco stalked ahead and Harry hurried to his side. “Welcome to Diagon Alley,” he called after them, a touch of sarcasm evident in his voice.

Harry and Draco reached the room behind the pub that was utterly devoid of anything but the door and the expanse of brick that they both recognized as the entranceway into main Wizarding street.

Draco drew his wand and looked at Harry, eyebrows raised.

Harry nodded, giving Draco a reassuring smile as he turned back to the wall.

Draco tapped out the pattern then stood back next to Harry as the bricks began moving, turning and disappearing to reveal the once-bright entrance of Diagon Alley.

Harry sucked in a breath at the sight of it.

He remembered the last time he had used this entrance, right before his third year of school. How he was immediately struck with the bright colors, smiling children, worried mothers and shouts of venders on the side of the road, now all turned to gray ghosts of their former selves.

No vender with brightly colored sweets dared set up shop—only seedy and dirty looking men reminiscent of Mundungus Fletcher crowded close to buildings, leering at passing women and children, shaking bags of unknown content in their faces.

Hardly any children were out, either, Harry noticed, as they stepped into the ashy cobbled street. The passerby consisted mainly of women accompanied by either a man or another woman, looking fearfully at any other man who looked at them for longer than a few moments, and hurried from one place to another as fast as they could.

Harry remembered the saddened and scared population that still frequented Diagon Alley just a year ago, but he was shocked at how drastically things had degenerated. It seemed there were no original shops remaining—even Flourish and Blotts seemed to be different now, under a different name and selling what looked like war propaganda in media with gruesome covers.

“I know,” Draco said quietly, and Harry jumped as he remembered his presence. “I know it’s bad, but we’ve got to keep moving. We can’t just stare.”

Harry swallowed and nodded, stepping into place beside Draco as they hurried down the road to Knockturn Alley, trying to get to the pathway Griphook told them about.

All of a sudden, they heard shouting coming up the street from them, the sound like a bomb going off in the dark silence that had previously lain on the area. Harry and Draco whirled around to see three men hurrying quickly down the main road, glaring at terrified citizens, wands drawn.

“WHERE IS HE?” one demanded from a young woman, whose male companion immediately stepped to her aid.

“Leave off my sister,” he responded hotly, and his sister tugged him back.

“George, _no_ ,” she pleaded, pulling him back from the men.

“Listen to your sister, filth,” the man spat. George stepped back, looking mutinous and not letting go of his sister.

Harry looked at Draco in alarm. Draco shook his head in response, though he looked uncertain.

“It can’t be us,” he whispered. “Probably someone they were already chasing—a Muggle-born or something.”

“Let’s keep walking,” Harry suggested, turning away from the men, who had moved on from harassing George and his sister.

He glanced over his shoulder once and was alarmed to see the group coming their way.

“ _Draco_ ,” he hissed, and Draco glanced over his shoulder as well.

“Shit,” he whispered, and grabbed Harry’s arm. “Trust me on this next part, okay?”

Harry nodded wordlessly and let himself be pulled into a shadowy corner right outside of Knockturn Alley, Draco pressing him immediately against a wall.

“Wha—“ Harry tried to ask before Draco descended on him, the now scratchy mouth attacking his.

Harry froze, shocked for a second before he realized what Draco was doing.

He kissed him back just as fervidly, both of them straining to hear what the group of men advancing on them were doing.

Harry’s hand snaked down to the wand in his back pocket as Draco moved in closer, shielding his body from view.

“Not on the fucking _street_ ,” they heard the same man protest loudly, this time from about ten feet away. The comment was obviously directed towards them and Harry’s mind clouded with tension as he twined a hand in Draco’s not-Draco hair to let the men know that they weren’t stopping for them.

Hopefully it would work.

“Let’s get out of here, leave the fucking poofs to themselves,” another one suggested, amidst sounds of disgust.

“Fine,” the apparent leader replied, and Harry and Draco pulled back when they heard the footsteps retreating back to the main street.

“Oh thank God,” Harry whispered, not daring to move away until the group of men were completely out of sight.

“That was lucky,” Draco agreed, stepping back from Harry.

“Draco?”

“Hm?”

Harry rubbed the side of his jaw. “Don’t…grow a beard,” he said simply.

Draco laughed. “I don’t like it either.”

“Alright, we’ve got to hurry now, we’re losing time,” Harry urged, taking off again at a brisk pace. “No more kissing me.”

“If that’s how you feel,” Draco sighed, winking at Harry.

“Don’t wink either!”

“Alright!”

They walked along down Knockturn Alley, finding it all too easy to retain a somber composure amongst the dark and grimy atmosphere.

Reaching Borgin and Burkes, they made sure no one was following them and ducked around the side of it, Harry holding his breath until they came to the secret pathway.

“It’s here,” Draco observed, sounding surprised.

“Did you doubt him?” Harry asked, looking around them once more for anyone suspicious.

“Well, yes, I did.”

“Sometimes you just have to trust people,” Harry replied, flashing a quick smile at his companion.

“I suppose,” Draco replied, pretending not to notice the duality of Harry’s comment.

They walked on in silence, regaining their business-like exterior in case they ran into anyone unexpectedly.

“He said it was the last shop at the end of this road,” Harry said eventually, pointing to a shack-looking place that marked the end of their pathway.

“Should we go back around to the front?” Draco asked, and Harry nodded.

They slipped discreetly around a nameless and boarded-up shop on their left and Harry immediately felt more exposed.

They seemed to still be alone in their endeavor, no one appearing to be anywhere around to see them.

“Our luck holds,” Draco muttered.

Harry stepped closer to the Potions shop, glancing up at the sign.

“ _Clearwater Potions_ ,” he read, raising his eyebrows. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of shop to belong in Knockturn Alley.”

“Well, it’s still a front for an illegal potions trade,” Draco replied, inspecting the outside of the building. “I don’t imagine it’s supposed to arouse suspicion.”

“But Clearwater—as in Penelope Clearwater? Ravenclaw?”  Harry asked, unable to fit a potions dealer to the perfect and prim Penelope he often used to see around Hogwarts.

Draco shrugged. “Let’s just go inside, get this over with,” he replied, stepping past Harry with resolution.

“Alright,” Harry exhaled, and followed him.

He stood behind Draco as Draco turned the slightly grimy doorknob, pushing the door open with some difficulty. They found themselves in a dark, dusty and cluttered room, two rays of light streaming in from opposite and high windows on the wall. The rest of the room was illuminated by a small number of candles, placed strategically on shelves and on top of books, their flickering light ominous rather than warm.

There were cauldrons and vials on shelves lining the walls, all neatly labeled and clean. Harry couldn’t see any price tags on any of the items—they seemed to be entirely for show.

At the back of the room there was a door, slightly ajar and beyond what seemed to be a checkout counter.

They also still seemed to be alone. Was the entire shop empty?

Harry glanced at Draco, who looked back and shrugged.

“Gentlemen!”

They both whipped their heads back to face a tall and thin man who had apparently materialized behind the counter. He looked to be about thirty-five to forty years old, with thin brown hair cropped short to his head. His eyes were small and his face sort of dirty, as if he had never accomplished washing all of the dirt off of it.

“Franklin Clearwater?” Harry asked, watching the man hurry around the counter.

The man didn’t answer, just surveyed them both in astonishment. He walked uncomfortably close up to Harry, looking him in the eye for what seemed like an unnecessarily long time.

It was strange, but it almost seemed like this man _recognized_ him.

“Er—“ Harry stammered, then cleared his throat. He lowered his voice and stood up straighter. “Are you alright?”

“I’m quite fine,” the man breathed, then stepped away from Harry. He snapped his head to look at Draco, moving closer to perform the same examination.

“Then, you _are_ Franklin Clearwater?” Draco repeated Harry’s earlier question, looking only slightly uncomfortable.

The man stepped back, his expression clearing. “I am,” he answered finally, and Harry relaxed slightly.

Then, the man moved as suddenly as if he had been struck. Harry only saw the pale flash of flesh and then the man’s wand was drawn, pointing at a spot above Draco—

A sudden _bang_ and there was an enormous cauldron was falling from a shelf and crashing down—

“DRACO!” Harry screamed, launching himself towards Draco. He crashed into him, knocking the breath out of the other, and they both hurtled to the floor, a bit bruised but blessedly safe.

Assured of this, they sat up quickly, remembering where they were. Harry glared at the shopkeeper as Draco stared, horrified, at Harry.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Harry yelled, jumping to his feet and drawing his wand.

“ _Smith_ ,” Draco breathed, standing up carefully, “I believe it’s our time to leave.”

“Tell me,” Clearwater spoke, ignoring Draco. “What business does Mr. Harry Potter and Mr. Draco Malfoy have in my shop?”

Harry froze, the hand on his wand tightening.

“Harry Potter? Are you mad?” he asked, heart thudding in his chest, hating how unconvincing he knew he was being. “Have you ever seen a poster of either of them?”

The shopkeeper only smiled, tucking the wand at his side away in his robes. “I’m not going to report you. You’re here for help, are you not?”

Harry blinked. “We—“

“You called that man _Draco_ ,” Clearwater explained, one corner of his mouth turning up. “As in _Draco_ Malfoy, I assume, known to most likely be traveling with one Harry Potter?”

Harry was silent, completely unsure of what to do. He didn’t dare glance at Draco,

“It is in my profession to know a face when I see one,” he told them, eyes shining with an edge of mystery Harry still didn’t trust. “Even one altered with concealment magic.”

He drew his wand out again and waved it in a complicated motion in their general direction, and Harry felt his features shift uncomfortably back into their original position.

Raising a hand to his face, he even felt his glasses restored to normal, the familiar circles resting right where they should.

He looked over at Draco, who he saw with a rush of relief and warmth had also been cleared of his disguise.

“How is it that you know what we want?” Draco asked Clearwater, obviously still highly cautious.

Clearwater laughed. “That I do not know,” he replied. “Only that you need something from me.”

“We do,” Harry said quickly, glancing over at Draco to warn him that they still needed to be civil—Draco was looking more and more like he’d like to jinx Clearwater where he stood. “A potion.”

“I assumed as much,” Clearwater snorted, nodding around the shop.

“Fair enough,” Harry allowed. “We had something specific in mind. A…er, a friend told us that you might have a sort of…modified Polyjuice Potion? To work with…maybe the child of a person?”

“Didn’t take any of your father’s hair when you ran away from home?” he leered over at Draco, grinning devilishly. Draco’s expression hardened.

“Can you do it?” Harry asked, worried for Draco and beginning to feel impatient.

“Oh yes, I can do it. It’s my most successful potion,” Clearwater informed them. “I’ll be right back.”

He waltzed away quickly, his grin and fast pace giving him the look of a slightly insane dancer.

“I don’t like him,” Draco announced as soon as Clearwater disappeared. He glared at the door at the back of the shop as if it had done him personal wrong.

“That’s actually fairly evident,” Harry replied pointedly, raising his eyebrows at Draco. “Just because he hasn’t tried to kill us—“

Draco cleared his throat.

“—well, kill _me_ , or even hand us in doesn’t guarantee he’s going to help us. You’ve got to put up with people you might not like if we’re going to get anywhere,” Harry finished, his voice dropping to a whisper as he eyed Clearwater coming out of the back room, holding a dusty vial of potion.

“Not conspiring to kill me, then, are you?” he called, smiling at them both.

“No,” Harry and Draco both replied quickly, and Harry cringed.

Clearwater only grinned as he approached them, holding up the bottle to the dim light in the shop.

“This is what you want,” he told him, his voice suddenly hushed. “Am I correct in the assumption that young Mr. Malfoy would like to resemble his father?”

“As closely as possible,” Draco specified, forcing his lips into a smile.

“I assure you, it will be an exact copy,” Clearwater promised, shaking his arms free of his cloak and drawing his wand with a rather unnecessary touch of dramatics.

Draco watched him nervously, and Harry remembered his earlier question to Griphook.

“How does this all work?” he asked, nodding at Draco and the vial. “Does it have anything to do with…Muggle science? Biology? Is that even possible?”

Clearwater paused, surveying Harry again with surprise and interest.

“Perhaps there _is_ some intelligence mixed in with your dumb luck, Mister Potter,” he said approvingly, and Draco snorted.

“There’s an evil magical dictator with a personal vengeance against me,” Harry deadpanned. “I’ve never been able to count on ‘dumb luck’.”

He saw Draco’s eyebrows raise slightly and his lips tug up into a smirk. Harry winked at him before glancing back at Clearwater, who was looking at him with even more interest.

“Indeed,” he agreed vaguely, before looking back to the vial. “My parents are both Muggles. They’re geneticists, actually—er, that’s the study of resemblance between family members, things of that nature, Mr. Malfoy—and they are the reason for my expertise in this tragically under-studied field.”

“What field would that be?” Harry asked.

Clearwater leaned in closer to Harry, even though he was still the same distance away. “Mixing science with magic,” he whispered, grinning.

“What?” Draco spoke, brow furrowing.

“You see, Mr. Malfoy, magic and wizards have been around for a lot longer than the study of science. Wizards figured out how to cast a spell that makes something explode long before Muggles figured out how to split an atom,” he explained, depositing the vial in Draco’s hands and manually curling his fingers around the glass. “Magic was born with this planet—but so were the laws of physics. So was the science of gravity—it just took longer for a certain group of people to write the latter down.”

Harry smiled at Clearwater’s enthusiasm, reminded irresistibly of Hermione. He felt a pang of guilt and sadness to know how much she would have loved to hear this.

“Magic and science have been kept apart for far too long.” Clearwater nodded resolutely, as if coming to this conclusion for the first time. “People with one have no real want for the other, thinking it useless. Who needs a Flying Spell when you know how to build a plane? Who needs to understand the law of inertia when you have a spell that can cancel its effects?”

Harry glanced at Draco, who was staring at Clearwater with an almost unreadable expression. Harry wouldn’t have known what to make of it if it hadn’t been for the awe he saw in the blond’s eyes.

Perhaps he wasn’t the only one benefitting from this.

“So that’s what I’m doing!” Clearwater declared, smiling again and pointing to Draco’s hand, still raised and closed tightly around the potion. “That potion, for example, contains elements and a spell that mixes genetics with the properties of the Polyjuice Potion. All I have to do is this.”

He pointed his wand at Draco’s hand and whispered something unintelligible. Harry looked back at Draco’s hand to see the vial glow, the light shining through the gaps in Draco’s fingers.

“Is this going to hurt?” Draco asked, startled.

“It shouldn’t,” Clearwater replied.

Draco nodded, seeming unconvinced. He gasped as the light began to spread through his veins, making his arm glow a sort of pale yellow color before it vanished completely, the vial returning to normal and his arm no longer luminescent. Draco twisted his arm around, inspecting it with wide eyes, as if checking to make sure no small patches remained lit.

“There,” Clearwater broke the awe-struck silence with a satisfied whisper. He cleared his throat and nodded at Draco’s hand. “When you drink that, you should immediately gain the form of Lucius Malf—“

Clearwater was cut short by a loud _bang_ from the front door. Harry and Draco whirled around immediately, hands flying to wands as the door received another blow and gave way.

“I KNOW YOU HAVE—“ The leader of the group of men stormed in, stopping short at the sight of two wands pointed at him, his mouth falling open at the sight of who was holding them.

“The Dark Lord was right, you two _are_ daft,” the man breathed, an evil grin curdling on his face. “Coming here, even with that spell on you?”

“What spell?” Harry demanded, stepping closer and pointing his wand at the man’s neck.

“ _Stupid_ Potter,” the man wheezed, his eyes darting from the wand to Harry’s eyes. “Too arrogant to think that you could be tracked down with a simple Apparation Recognition spell.”

He laughed, cruel and booming, and Harry heard Draco swear next to him.

“We know the _second_ you step foot in Diagon Alley,” the man leered, leaning over Harry so the tip of his wand pressed even further into his throat.

He lunged forward suddenly, knocking Harry’s arm out of the way with a brutish swing.

Harry felt a flash of pain in his elbow before his reflexes kicked in, darting around the arms trying to cage him in. He rushed towards Draco as three other men came running into the shop, spells flying.

“GO!”

Harry’s looked back to see Clearwater fighting off one man, waving his arm frantically at Harry and Draco. “GO, GO!”

_“Avada Keda—“_

_“Stupefy!”_ Harry shot a red jet of light at the man aiming to kill Clearwater, watching the shopkeeper fly over his stiff body to hold back two more invaders.

Men lay on the ground, Stunned or otherwise by Clearwater’s hand, but Draco was fighting off two as Harry turned back to him, firing a spell at one of them that was easily blocked.

These two remaining were obviously the most skilled of the group, and one engaged Harry while the other one kept at Draco.

“We’re s’posed to bring in Potter alive,” Draco’s challenger hissed, firing a blue crack of what seemed like lightning at Draco. “’e didn’t give us the same direction fer _you_.”

Harry’s concentration broke for a second as he whipped around to face Draco’s attacker, a spell on his tongue as he was hit with what felt like a whip across his chest.

He yelled and dropped to the floor as the pain slashed and encircled around his body, cutting into his skin. He gasped for breath as what he know realized were ropes moved away from his throat.

“RUN, DRACO!” he screamed, thrashing against the binding forces that were tightening around his body.

Predictably, Draco didn’t run.

What Draco _did_ do astounded him even more than if he had.

As Harry’s captor closed in on Draco from a different angle, the Slytherin shot a spell of what seemed to be black powder out of his wand.

It expanded in the air, causing a split-second smokescreen between him and the two assailants.

Then—

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

Harry froze in astonishment as he saw the jet of green light penetrate through the smoke and hit Draco’s attacker in the chest. He barely made a sound as he was thrown back, falling to the ground with a sickening thud.

“Oh, god, Draco,” Harry breathed, his mind slowing down.

The other man ran from Draco back to Harry, his eyes wide with panic as he tried to grab hold of one of Harry’s limbs. His reach was halfway to Harry’s arm before Draco struck again.

“ _Avada Kedavra!”_

The man was blasted away from Harry and thrown to the ground, sprawled out over the dusty wood, completely still.

Everything was quiet then, save for the heavy breathing of both Harry and Draco. Harry’s bonds dissolved into the air as the spell no longer recognized a caster, leaving him free but still bloody.

“Harry,” Draco breathed, rushing over to him and dropping to his knees beside him.

“You killed them,” Harry said, still having trouble processing the information. “You actually _killed_ them.”

“Well, they weren’t exactly welcoming us to the neighborhood,” Draco replied darkly. His face changed from anger to worry as he looked over Harry again, placing a hand on his neck and arm. “They hurt you.”

“People do that a lot.”

Draco blinked. “Are you…mad at me?”

Harry breathed out, trying to clear his head. He sat up slowly, with the assist of Draco.

“No,” he answered slowly, sorting through the fading rush of adrenaline and fear. “I don’t think so.”

“You need to leave.”

They both jumped at the wheezing voice, eyes snapping over to where the forgotten Clearwater sat slumped against a wall, head bowed and breathing deeply.

Harry staggered up to his feet and rushed with Draco to Clearwater’s side.

“I’ll be fine,” the shopkeeper assured them. “You have the potion?”

Draco nodded, withdrawing the vial from his pocket.

Clearwater closed his eyes. “Good. Go. The authorities will be here soon.”

Harry hesitated, the indecision clear on both his and Draco’s face.

“ _Go!_ ”

“Right,” Harry nodded, shaking his head and grabbing Draco’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Clearwater.”

“I wish you all the best dumb luck,” Clearwater replied, nodding solemnly. “There’s an Apparation point just outside the shop, but you can’t do it in here. _Hurry_ , now!”

Harry and Draco both turned and fled, running into the back of the shop and out the door they found in the very back of that room, soon finding themselves deposited into a space about three feet wide in between the back of the shop and a concrete wall.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked anxiously, taking Harry by the shoulders and running his eyes down his body. “Merlin, you’re bleeding _everywhere—“_

“I’m fine,” Harry replied. “We’ve got to go.”

“It’s one quick spell to heal you,” Draco insisted, drawing his wand and murmuring something, quickly running it down the length of Harry’s body.

Harry felt the cuts close themselves, stopping the thin flow of blood from every one of them. The pain was dulled significantly as a result, the relief of it surprising Harry, as he hadn’t remembered them hurting that much at all.

“That’s better,” Draco nodded at his work, looking satisfied.

“Thanks,” he said, grabbing Draco and hugging him tightly on an impulse.

Draco breathed out in relief.

Shouting from the distance broke them apart, startling them both back into reality.

“To the alleyway?” Harry asked, not letting go of Draco’s hand.

Draco nodded.

 

The sight of the grimy Amsterdam alleyway had never been more comforting.

They staggered forward, astounded at their success, but a sudden cry and sight of another presence stopped them both short.

“ _There_ you are, we’ve been waiting for _hours_!”

Harry stepped forward, hardly daring to believe what was happening. He heard Draco’s intake of breath and saw his step back in his periphery vision, concern for him flying in and out of his mind.

“God, you’re _covered_ in blood!”

“Alright then, mate?”

Harry looked at both of them, mouth open and a confusing assailment of emotions flooding his mind.

“ _Ron? Hermione?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okaaaaay so! Long chapter, a lot of stuff happening! Plot!  
> A few notes, as usual:  
> 1\. I actually didn’t go back and try to get Tom’s character to match the one in the books—I made him more of a general barkeeper purely to suit the story better.
> 
> 2\. The kissing as a diversion--yes, that was from Inception and Captain America 2.
> 
> 3\. For anyone wondering about Penelope and Mr. Clearwater—yes, they’re related. Penelope Clearwater is his niece, but he has long since been estranged from the family.
> 
> 4\. And another note about about Clearwater--I am basing this character off of the guy in the first movie drinking tea in The Leaky Cauldron and reading Einstein’s Theory of Relativity because I feel like he's pretty cool.
> 
> As always, leave me a comment if you have appreciation or questions:)
> 
> One last thing--I probably won't update next week, since I'm going to be gone all weekend and that's when I usually get the bulk of my writing done. Next week is going to be busy in my academic high school life as well. Oh, the woes of a sophmore.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooorry about the week-late update. I was incredibly busy that weekend and that week--I barely got this one in on time!
> 
> Anyway, I'm back, and I hope you enjoy!

The tea was actually helping, much to Harry’s surprise. He had forgotten how well Hermione could make it.

The cooked leaves and boiling water could not, however, dull the surprise and confusion that came with the arrival of both Hermione and Ron, and especially could not cancel out the discomfort and anxiety he could feel rolling off of Draco in waves.

“Tell me where you were.” Hermione demanded, after silently handing Draco a cup of reluctantly-made tea. She sat down in front of Harry, her eyes flitting to Draco once more before settling on Harry.

“We were in Knockturn Alley,” Harry replied, keeping his eyes on his tea. “We had to get something.”

“Knockturn…” Hermione’s mouth fell open, and she shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, Harry. Did you even  _think_  how  _dangerous_  that is?”

“Yes,” Harry responded at the same time Ron said “I’m sure they knew what they were doing.”

Harry flashed him a grateful smile. Hermione huffed again.

“What did you have to ‘get’ from Knockturn Alley?”

Harry opened his mouth, but hesitated. He turned towards Draco, ignoring Hermione’s immediate intake of breath. Draco looked up at him with vague surprise and shrugged, imperceptible to anyone but Harry. He held his eyes for a moment and then looked away again.

“Er,” Harry said finally, turning away from Draco to face a shocked Hermione and a neutral Ron. “Can you…I’m sorry, but I need to talk to Draco. Just…just for a second.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up and Ron exhaled heavily. Harry looked at them both before nodding once.

“Right,” he said, standing up. “Um, Draco?”

Draco wordlessly stood and followed him, keeping his eyes on the stone floor.

 

Harry listened to Draco’s footsteps as they walked away from the kitchen.

The arrival of Ron and Hermione had thrown Harry in a completely unexpected way. He had a strange and sudden feeling of dread at the bottom of his stomach, resulting only in making him confused and guilty.

Draco’s footsteps quickened to catch up with him. Harry slowed down.

Harry hadn’t realized, either, the completely separate world they brought with him. He had years of love and memories and friendship with Ron and Hermione, but the life he had with them contrasted directly with this new world Harry had adapted to.

 The world Ron and Hermione hadn’t even begun to enter—the one thing Harry loved that his friends just couldn’t understand.

Draco’s footsteps stopped. Harry turned around.

“Do I have to leave now?” Draco asked, his head bowed and eyes downcast.

Harry stared at him.

He understood immediately, but Draco’s question stung him in a way he was sure he hadn’t intended it too.

“How could you even say that?” he whispered, stepping closer. Draco’s eyes raised guiltily to his. “How can you even think I’d do that to you?”

“They’re not in love with me, Harry.”

“Well good, that would complicate things!”

Draco sighed, frustrated. He looked around the hallway, long and bright and empty, shaking his head. “They don't want me here.”

“They’ve been here for twenty minutes,” Harry pointed out. “They know nothing about what’s happened between the time we left and now, three weeks later. You saved our lives, all of us. They have to be willing to give you a second chance.”

Draco looked at him for a moment, then his eyes darted somewhere else.

“You have to be nice to them.” Harry warned.

Draco made a face.

“I’m serious. You can still be… _yourself_ , but you can’t be the person that bullied them for years.”

“They’ll probably still hate me,” Draco mumbled, shrugging.

“I thought I’d never like you,” Harry confessed, and Draco snorted. He pressed on, trying to make his point clear. “At first, I just thought you’d always a prat that reminded me of Dudley, and then I thought you’d never change. And then when I saw that you maybe _could_ …I couldn’t sit around and wait for that maybe. You had to show me.”

“I rescued you,” Draco filled in lamely, nodding like he was listening to an old lecture. “I saved your life, I redeemed myself.”

“You showed me you changed,” Harry corrected. “That's the most important thing. You stood down everything you thought you believed in, and that’s what they really want to see. It’s what I wanted to see, from sixth year on, and it’s what they would rather. Who would want an enemy over a friend?”

Draco was silent. He looked at Harry, his expression still unsure.

“Show them you can be their friend.”

“Their friend,” Draco repeated, his tone turning hesitant. “Friend.”

“Yeah, they can accept you as a friend. Someone who’s on their side…” Harry trailed off, confused, staring at Draco.

The blond seemed to be holding his breath; his chest was lifted and he was avoiding Harry’s eye again. His mouth was slightly open, as if he were on the verge of saying something important.

“What is it?” Harry urged, suddenly fearful.

“I don’t think we should tell them,” Draco replied, his words all separated clearly but still in the same stream of air.

“About…” Harry prompted, his heart sinking as he realized what Draco was getting at.

Draco looked at him regretfully. “I just think they’ll be more receptive to…our friendship…if that’s all they thought it was.”

Harry exhaled.

It made sense. It was logical. Draco was right—they both knew he was. How was Harry supposed to explain that he had fallen for  _Draco Malfoy_  in less than a month?

He imagined, for a moment, telling them everything. What would he even say?

_“I know we haven’t gotten on well in the past, but I honestly quite love Draco Malfoy now and only partially because he’s a bloody fantastic kisser.”_

Yeah, Draco was right.

“That makes sense,” Harry agreed, pushing past the ominous feeling in his gut. “You’re right.”

Draco nodded curtly. “We’ll need separate rooms.”

Harry froze, an inexplicable rush of fear assaulting him for a split second before clearing, leaving him almost winded.

“Of course,” he replied, as business-like as he could.

“And Gringotts? Everything you’re planning?”

“We have to tell them,” Harry replied firmly, mentally shaking himself. “They’ve always been involved, it wouldn’t go over well to cut them out. And we need all the help we can get.”

Draco nodded again. He turned away and started walking back, Harry rushing to catch up with him.

“Wait, Harry—“ Draco stopped suddenly, before whirling back around.

Harry stopped and raised his eyebrows in answer before Draco was on him in an instant, mouth crashing down on his, arm going around Harry’s waist and pulling him in.

Harry responded gratefully as Draco kissed him deeply and desperately. Their tongues twisted together and hands grasped at clothing, at skin, at anything, each trying to get one simple promise out of the other. But it didn’t solve anything, and they both knew that. It eased the ache of secrecy and shame, and as the edge of desperation and sadness broke into gentle hands gliding over shoulders, down backs and swollen lips sliding together, Harry felt like it would all be okay.

Everything was always eventually okay.

Draco squeezed his waist once and pulled back, breaking the kiss but not their proximity. He rested his forehead against Harry’s, thumb stroking over Harry’s cheekbone.

“We’ll be fine,” he whispered, and Harry nodded, closing his eyes. “It’s just a secret.”

“A big secret.”

“You can handle a big secret, Potter.” Harry could hear the smile in Draco’s voice.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“You can handle me, you can handle this.”

Harry snorted, opening his eyes. “What about you?”

“I can handle you, can’t I?”

“Hey!” Harry drew back a little to nudge him with his elbow before Draco pulled him back.

“Say you love me,” he breathed, his arms coming solidly around Harry.

“I love you,” Harry complied honestly, smiling up at him.

Draco smiled too, stepping back away from Harry and breathing deeply.

“Let’s go? They’ve been waiting an awfully long time now.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, let’s. Remember—be nice to them. Friendly.”

“Right,” Draco replied, waiting for Harry to fall into step with him. “I just have to win them over. Easy.”

“I was easy.”

“I’m actually thinking I’m going to take a slightly  _different_  approach than the one I used for you,” Draco reasoned, raising his eyebrows at Harry.

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, please don’t snog either of them.”

Draco laughed. “Not even Weasley?”

“Oh my god!”

 

“Hi,” Harry said from the doorway.

Granger stood up immediately and Weasley pushed himself off of the counter, both pairs of eyes resting expectantly on Harry and Draco.

On an impulse, Draco raised a hand in a quick greeting, seeing both of them stiffen in response.

_Be nice._

“Have a nice talk?” Granger sniffed, touching the handle of her teacup.

Weasley looked at Harry disapprovingly. They both ignored Draco.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry sighed, and Draco watched him cross to the kitchen table, not taking a seat.

Draco’s lips parted.

“We just needed…” he began, and three pairs of eyes snapped immediately to him.  _Be their friend_. “We just needed to figure out how to tell you…everything.”

The trio stared at him for a moment longer before Granger spoke.

“So you are going to,” she clarified, looking at Draco for a second before addressing Harry. “You’re going to tell us everything?”

_‘Everything’ is relative_ , Draco thought, leaving the answer to that one up to Harry.

“Of course,” Harry replied easily, warmly. Draco knew he really meant that warmth. Was he really ready to lie completely? His eyes rested on Harry as the brunet smiled. “We’re going to tell you every logistical detail.”

_Beautifully done_. Draco almost smiled.

“So why did you need Griphook?” Weasley asked, folding his arms.

Harry took a breath. “I think—I’m fairly certain, anyway—that I know where the next Horcrux is.”

Granger closed her eyes briefly, nodding. “And you need Griphook because…”

“Because I think it’s in a Gringotts vault,” Harry supplied, his tone grim.

Weasley and Granger exchanged a look.

“That’s what we thought it would be,” Granger divulged. “But—tell us why? Why are you breaking into Gringotts on…on a whim?”

“It’s not just a whim,” Draco spoke again before he even thought about it. Granger gasped as if she had forgotten he was there, and Weasley immediately moved to her side. Draco faltered for a moment before he pressed on, walking further into the room. “It’s not just a whim.”

“What evidence do you have?” Granger snapped, her brown eyes flashing before narrowing.

“I—well,” Draco tried, looking to Harry for help.

“Hermione,” Harry cautioned.

“Sorry,” she said immediately, shaking her head once. “It’s hard to—I wasn’t there, and I keep—I keep forgetting—I just can’t believe it.”

Harry sighed, and Weasley touched her shoulder.

“I’m sorry I made it so hard for you to believe,” Draco apologized quietly, stepping closer.

Granger considered him only for a second before her eyes dropped to the table.

No one spoke, but the silence that fell was thrumming with uncertainty and tension until Harry sighed again, swiveling in his chair to look at Draco.

“Okay, Draco, sit down. All of you, listen to me.”

Draco hesitated for a moment before quickly taking a seat, the angry tone of Harry’s voice making the situation clear to all of them. Granger sat up, her eyes widening with worry. Weasley automatically looked guilty, but he stood up straighter as he faced his best friend.

Harry waited until Draco had sat down, his eyes not on any of them, before he finally took a breath.

“There are three things we all know right now for sure,” he said, his voice still hard and frustrated. “One of them should be fairly obvious to all of us, I hope, and that is the fact that we’re all trying to win a war.”

“Harry—“ Granger interrupted, her voice placating, but Harry shot her a look that made her quickly close her mouth. She quieted, sitting back and folding her arms.

“The second thing is that we are not going to defeat You-Know-Who by sitting here in a passive-aggressive power struggle,” he continued, eyeing Granger and Draco in particular.

They each said nothing.

“Third, Draco saved all our lives,” Harry concluded sincerely, his voice softer. “He defied everything he stood for to save me, and to save you. He isn’t the person that either of you thought he was, and if we’re going to get through all of this together, you need to give him a second chance.”

Draco was staring hard at Harry’s elbow. He didn’t feel like meeting neither Granger nor Weasley’s stare, even though he knew they were probably expecting him to.

Here he was again. Another evaluation, more people he’d wronged deciding if he was worth their generous and good redemption, if whether his shitty past self could be understood, whether this broken-down new version of him could be pitied. It was becoming hard to feel grateful.

“I just don’t understand,” Granger whispered, her eyes wide and confused. “How did  _any_  of this even  _happen_?”

“I don’t get it either, mate,” Weasley added grimly, shrugging. “I can’t go on…blind faith that Malfoy’s all well and good now…er, no offense.”

Draco shrugged, arching a brow. “Why would I be offended?” he deadpanned.

Weasley at least had the decency to look sheepish.

“So we’ll make you understand,” Harry declared. “We’ll start from the beginning. We’ll tell you everything that happened.”

Draco’s eyes darted to him.

_Except...?_

Harry met his gaze briefly.

_Except that._

 

“ _Genetics_?” Hermione clarified, sounding shocked. “That’s…that’s  _absolutely brilliant!_  I mean, I’d often think about mixing science and magic, or whether the two even crossed—but it never came up in Muggle Studies, and—well, it’s just brilliant!”

“So you’re gonna look like your father?” Ron asked Draco, his nose wrinkling. “That’s unfortunate.”

“I’m not exactly looking forward to it,” Draco huffed in response, crossing his arms.

“I dunno, I always figured you’d kind of love that,” Ron snorted in reply, and Harry inwardly sighed.

“Ron.”

“Right. Sorry. Be nice to Malfoy. I forgot,” he said scathingly, waving Harry’s reprimand away.

Harry glanced at Draco, who was glaring daggers (and knives and broadswords) into the side of Ron’s head.

“Ron, you’re impossibly stubborn. Listen to Harry, he knows what he’s doing,” Hermione told him, rolling her eyes apologetically at Harry and flashing Draco a slightly uncomfortable smile.

“Thank you, Granger,” Draco said stiffly, and she nodded quickly at him, not meeting his eye.

Harry grimaced. Really, it was the best he could hope for.

Then Hermione took a breath and held it, her mouth slightly open and her eyes darting to Draco once more before she dropped them to her hands in her lap.

Draco blinked, looking nervous.

“You can ask questions, Hermione,” Harry prodded gently.

“I don’t bite,” Draco added, though Ron still looked doubtful.

“Alright,” Hermione accepted hesitantly, nodding evenly towards Draco’s left arm. “You said…you said they ‘took’ your Mark from you? What did you mean?”

Draco looked at her for a moment and rubbed his left forearm, where Harry knew he could still feel the ugly scar. He took a breath and looked away as he pushed the Transfigured fabric away from the skin, closing his eyes at Hermione’s small gasp.

Harry resisted the urge to comfort him and instead tried to catch his eye, but Draco’s still remained shut. Harry had seen the scar many times by now, but he was reminded of its incredible gravity as he watched his friends stare at it, horrified and silent, before Draco retracted his arm.

“I said that they ‘took it’, but perhaps a more accurate description would be ‘burned it off’. Using magic, of course, they never even had to touch me.” Draco spoke into the heavy silence, shaking his sleeve back over his skin. “I don’t think it’s something that can ever be mended, it’s just…there now.”

“It’s a curse scar,” Hermione said softly, her eyes moving from Draco to Harry. “You’ll never be able to heal it—it’s like Harry’s, actually.”

“It doesn’t ever hurt,” Draco replied, shaking his head. “Like I said, it’s just kind of there.”

“Curse scars don’t always hurt,” Hermione informed him, her tone morphing from piteous to the all-too familiar lecture. “Harry’s is fairly unusual in its potency and effects…the majority of curse scars act like yours seems to. They might twinge in certain circumstances, though.”

“Poor Malfoy,” Ron interrupted loudly, and Hermione glared at him. “How do we know this isn’t part of some big _plan_ of yours?”

“Oh,  _honestly_.”

“Ron, he’s—“

“Weasley, if I wanted Harry dead, he would be  _dead_ ,” Draco snarled, standing up and knocking his chair back.

Harry and Hermione fell silent as if Spelled that way, and Ron froze.

“If this was all some  _scheme_ , some plot for You-Know-Who to snatch Harry up in the middle of the night, he would have burst down the doors to this house  _weeks_  ago.” Draco hissed, in the same animalistic and deadly tone. Harry shivered, eyeing his friends and thinking he ought to be a lot more worried than he actually was. “Get it through your head that  _I do not want Harry Potter dead_. On the contrary, I want him very much alive, because he may be a git but he’s the only really good person I can think of.”

Harry flushed and looked down, resisting another urge to fly at Draco.

Ron’s face had reddened to, but for what Harry suspected was a vastly different reason than his. He unfolded his arms and leaned slightly over the table.

“The only reason I’m grateful of you is that your weird obsession with Harry has  _finally_  worked out in our favor. I’m grateful of you  _for once_  and for your sick, perverted fascination with him that you’ve had for seven  _years_ ,” Ron spat, his eyes narrowing. Draco’s lips parted and he took a step backwards, his expression vaguely horrified. Harry sucked in a breath, but the noise went unnoticed by Ron and Draco. Hermione looked at him, her eyes panicky.

“You say you can name one good person?” Ron continued, ignoring Harry’s glare at Hermione’s proddings. “I can name about a hundred. And I care about  _every single one_  of them. Not just the one. Until you learn how to do that, until you learn how to fight for what you believe in and for who you love instead of your latest… _whatever_ , I can’t trust you.”

And he left, striding furiously out of the kitchen, Hermione hurrying after him.

“RON! Ron,  _stop!_ ” she tried desperately, her voice carrying down the hall as she chased after him.

Harry was stunned. It wasn’t because Ron had gotten mad—he had expected Ron to get mad. He had expected Hermione to get mad, he had expected Draco to get frustrated or angry with them back. He had expected to facilitate it. He had expected to guide them through their confusion.

But  _that_? That was beyond confusion. That was unadulterated distrust and disgust, and each word that Ron had said still sat like a stone in Harry’s gut.

“That was the most intelligent I’ve ever heard Weasley sound.”

Harry turned towards Draco, who looked sort of astounded as he sat back down at the table.

“You don’t believe I actually think any of that, do you?” Harry asked, taking Draco’s hands immediately in his. They were shaking slightly, but Harry still found them to be a comfort. “He’s acting out, he still doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“No, but he’s right, isn’t he? I don’t deserve to fight for this.” Draco replied, his head bowing.

“So I hallucinated you rescuing me from my death, then? Hallucinated your Mark getting burned off?”

Draco sighed.

“Listen.” Harry pulled him closer, waiting until Draco raised his eyes to his. “You and I both know that you’re not fighting this war because of me. You might think you need this whole rite of passage thing, but…if there ever was one, you’re through it. What makes you worthy to fight for this cause is the decision to fight for it.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, laughing weakly. “I’m such a prat.”

“Yes you are,” Harry agreed, ducking forward to kiss his cheek. “And so is Ron.”

“And so are you.”

“Yes I am.”

They sat there in silence as it began to drizzle outside, Draco staring out the window on the far side of the room and Harry staring at Draco’s hand, running his fingers along the back of it.

This is what he had gotten used to. This was now his normal.

“I’ll talk to Ron later tonight,” Harry promised. “Now he’s got the introduction, I just have to make it more personal.”

“I think I’m going to apologize to Granger tonight, then.” Draco answered quietly, his gaze still on the steadily increasing splatter of rain on the glass.

Harry looked up. “For…”

“Everything.”

“…Oh.”

Draco nodded. “For now…I guess we should separate our rooms?”

Harry stilled.

There it was again: that sickening, paralyzing flash of panic that seized his body for the second time at the mere mention of separating from Draco’s  _bed_.

He shook himself—he was being ridiculous. There was no need to fear sleeping alone—he could always bunk with Ron and make up some excuse. Ron would understand, he wouldn’t say anything. He could try Hermione, but Ron would probably rip his head off.

But he didn't want to do that.

“Yeah, I guess we should.”

 

Harry looked around his new room, finding it almost exactly the same as every other room in the house. He supposed that was to be expected. Sitting down on the edge of the newly-Conjured bed, he tried to imagine that this is where he had stayed for the past three weeks. This is where he had slept in between days of planning and missing Ron and Hermione and slowly developing a solid friendship with Draco. He blocked the visions of warning from Voldemort from his mind, trying to pretend they didn’t happen.

He pretended he hadn’t fallen in love, pretended everything was more or less the same as when he had left.

And then he felt empty, so he thought about the future. Assuming he survived this war. Assuming they all did.

And then he felt scared, so he pretended none of this was happening. He pretended his friends didn’t hate his boyfriend—or, at least, not because he used to be a member of an organization that actively campaigned for all of their deaths. He pretended that Draco had gotten the chance to grow out of being a prat. He pictured Draco in the library, studying with Hermione as Ron and Harry made fun of them from across the table in the library. He pretended the biggest argument they had was over house-elf liberation.

He pretended that Voldemort didn’t exist, that he had died a lonely life working in Borgin and Burkes, that Sirius was alive and had never gone to prison for the murder of his parents, that there was no prophecy, that Dumbledore was his wise and unusual professor still, that he had been allowed to grow up with a family.

He thought about that last even beyond the wall of pain and regret that usually blocked him from it, ignoring the tightening of his throat and tears prickling behind his eyes. He imagined what his father would say when he told him he was friends with Draco Malfoy. He imagined the conversation explaining he was now  _dating_  Draco Malfoy.

He imagined his mother would be glad. He imagined she’d be able to look past her misgivings, like Hermione was able to.

What if he had grown up like Ron had, surrounded by people that loved him? Would he have been ready to take chances on people like Draco when he saw he needed it?

“Mate?”

Harry jumped at Ron’s voice, his hand flying up to hastily wipe his eyes. “Yeah?”

“You…er, you’re alright?” Ron asked hesitantly, wavering in the doorway.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry replied, taking a breath of air and waving Ron in.

“Oh, okay,” Ron accepted, walking in and sitting down next to Harry. “This is your room?”

Harry nodded, looking around. “Yeah,” he replied simply, trying his best not to lie.

Ron nodded too. “Did you just Conjure the bed, or did Hermione pack those too?” he smiled weakly.

Harry laughed, maybe a bit louder than necessary, and patted the bed. “Draco actually did, he’s better at that than I am,” he replied honestly, eyeing Ron for a response.

Ron stiffened. “Oh. Right,” he said.

There was an awkward silence as Harry stared at the floor, trying to think of how to begin.

Ron coughed.

“Look, Ron,” Harry began finally, but Ron did not look at him. “I know you don’t trust Draco. I know you think his reasons aren’t…genuine, but I can tell you that they  _are_.”

“But why can’t you see what this is?” Ron blurted. “You two have always gotten to each other like he hasn’t been able to with Ron or Hermione. You followed him around for an entire  _year_ , and remember him sneaking around in first year?”

“That was six years ago!” Harry protested quickly, Ron’s insinuations hitting dangerously close to the truth.

“But Dumbledore was last year, Harry,” Ron replied. “And that’s not even my point. He’s been…obsessed with you for years and the first second he gets a little too scared and daddy’s not the most powerful man in the room anymore he runs to who  _is_.”

“I’m not just some power play to him!” Harry defended hotly, trying to keep his anger from clouding his filter.

“You’re  _something_. There’s something going on, beyond the whole ‘changed person’ thing he wants us all to believe.” Ron insisted, sighing and shaking his head.

_Maybe that’s because we’re shagging now_ , Harry thought unhelpfully. He, of course, did not express this theory out loud.

“You can be suspicious of Malfoy all you want,” Harry told him instead. “You can wait and see for yourself if he really has changed. But in order to even try and do that, you have to give him a chance.”

Ron sighed. “You sound like Hermione,” he mumbled, frowning.

Harry laughed. “And haven’t we learned by now to always listen to her?”

Ron grinned as well. “Yeah, I guess we have.”

 

Draco’s hands were shaking as he made his way to what he had been told was Granger’s room. Weasley had initially insisted he come along, but Harry had advocated for Draco going alone. Draco was grateful, but he wished in the current moment that he had someone (preferably Harry) with him to comfort him.

He took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock, but before he actually put his hand to the wood, he had to pause, listening intently.

Granger was humming something painfully familiar, the soft soprano of her voice very different from the smooth alto Draco had grown up hearing, but the familiar intimacy of it left him astounded.

Quietly, he pressed his shoulder up against the door and froze as the humming stopped, straining to hear it again.

All he heard was silence, however, and Draco realized she knew someone was there.

Draco stepped back, unsure of what to do. Granger didn't come to the door, or call out, making Draco think she was waiting for an action.

Perhaps he was feeling suddenly poetic with the resurgence of his nostalgia, perhaps he was just amazed to have something in common in with Granger, but Draco suddenly had an idea of his move.

_“Quand il me prend dans ses bras_   _,”_ Draco sang hesitantly, his voice just barely loud enough to carry through the door. _“Il me parle tout bas…Je vois la vie en rose…”_

He trailed off at the end of the phrase and held his breath, waiting for Granger’s response.

There was an immeasurable pause before the door was suddenly thrown open, revealing Granger, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

“ _Malfoy_?” she questioned, a bit breathless as she looked him up and down. “How—how do you—“

“Know that song?” he supplied. “My mother used to sing it to me.”

“But…that’s a Muggle song,” she countered, her lips still parted in confusion.

“It’s also a Wizarding song,” Draco replied. “I didn’t actually know it was Muggle.”

“You know the French,” Granger observed, raising her eyebrows.

Draco shrugged, smiling a bit sheepishly. “It was only ever sung to me in French,” he explained.

Granger bit her lip, looking dissatisfied. “I only know the English,” she admitted, sounding almost regretful.

Draco fought back the urge to laugh. He smiled pleasantly instead. “Maybe I could teach it to you sometime,” he offered unthinkingly, then cursed at the friendliness of it. He saw Granger notice it too, and she looked away uncomfortably.

“Actually,” Draco said, taking the opportunity to introduce what he had come here for, “I wanted to talk with you about…me, I suppose. Well, no, that sounds awful, but…well, you’ll see?”

Granger paused, looking him over for another minute before stepping aside. “Come in,” she allowed, her tone neutral and polite.

“Thank you,” Draco replied graciously, walking into the room.

She closed the door behind him, something Draco noted with surprise. Then again, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to glean from that.

He looked around her room as she moved around behind him, surveying the familiar architecture. The only difference was an extra window in this room, and he wondered if this detail was what held the appeal for her.

“What did you want to talk to me about, exactly?” she asked, crossing her arms and regarding him carefully.

“Well,” Draco began, not completely sure of how to phrase it. “This is…this is supposed to be a sort of formal apology.”

“How sincere,” Granger replied, the sarcasm incredibly subtle.

“Well,” Draco said again, temporarily disheartened. “I figured I should actually apologize at least once.”

Granger reached up and brushed a stray curl out of her face, her eyes never leaving him. “And what are you apologizing for, then?”

Draco laughed without humor, shaking his head. “Pick something.”

Granger’s eyebrows raised coldly, and he cursed himself again.

“Shit, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” he corrected himself, squeezing his eyes shut. “I meant…I have seven years of—of—of  _shit_  to apologize to you for. And I’m apologizing right now for everything, for every one of them.”

“Malfoy, I  _know_  you’re sorry for all of that,” she replied, rolling her eyes, her exterior warming immediately.

Draco paused.

She…she knew.

“You  _know_.”

“Malfoy, you practically say sorry every time you look at me! I see the regret in your face and I hear it in your words. Everything you’ve done for us has been an apology of sorts.” Granger told him, her voice soft.

Draco blinked, the meaning of her words finally settling in.

“You don’t…you’re not always going to hate me,” he realized, the relief at even this level of understanding throwing him off.

Granger laughed. “No, I’m not. I don’t have enough left in me to hate you. I’ve got a lot of other people to hate. As does Harry, and as does Ron, but Ron still can’t see past his schoolboy wounds.”

“So you’ll give me a second chance?” Draco asked breathlessly, finally daring himself to hope for a positive outcome to this question.

Granger smiled at him. “You’re doing very well with the second chance I’ve already given you,” she replied.

He smiled back, out of sheer relief. He hadn’t been expecting this sort of civil conversation—he had been well prepared for everything short of bloodshed.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

She nodded.

“I think I’ll leave you alone now,” he spoke again after a second of silence, and Hermione went to open the door.

“Before you go,” she said, looking like she was choosing her words carefully, “I’d actually like to thank you for something.”

Draco blinked at her.

“Thank you for looking after Harry while we’ve been gone,” she said, and Draco’s heart stopped momentarily.  _Could she mean--?_

“Before you deny it, I know you have been,” she continued, apparently oblivious to Draco’s internal panic. “He seems…different. In a good way. I never thought you two could actually become friends, but…I’m glad you did.”

“Oh,” was all Draco could think to say.

“Anyway,” she sighed, “I imagine Harry has already spoken to Ron about you, and I was planning on talking to him as well…but it was good of you to come here.”

Draco nodded. “Thanks for listening.”

She smiled. “I’d love to learn the French one day.”

 

Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if Hermione knew.

 

“I talked to Hermione today,” Draco said later, his eyes on the windows of the house in front of him. “Like I said I would.”

Harry sat beside him in the garden grass, picking at the weeds that were growing all around them and enjoying the coolness that the shade of the setting sun brought them. “I talked to Ron,” he offered.

Draco grimaced. “Did that go well?”

Harry shrugged. “Fairly well, I guess. Hermione told me about your talk with her.”

“Oh,” Draco said, worried again about how much she might have guessed.

Harry smiled, poking at Draco’s leg with his foot.

“ _Hold me close and hold me fast, this magic spell you cast_ ,” he crooned tunelessly, batting his eyelashes at Draco, who shoved him away.

“You’re a horrible singer, Potter,” he retorted, and Harry shrugged.

“That’s very true,” he said.

“I didn’t say I minded.”

“Well, good.”

 

_Give your heart and soul to me_

_And life will always be_

_La vie en rose_

_Et dès que je l’aperçois_

_Alors je sens en moi_

_Mon coeur qui bat_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo wasn't that cute  
> Couple of notes, as always:  
> 1) So um the song Draco and Hermione bond over is La Vie En Rose, which I think everyone has heard at least once in their life. It’s originally in French, of course, and I made the song be popular among wizards as well as Muggles so this is why it’s included in Draco’s record of childhood lullabies (in the original French as well, of course).  
> The translation is something I got online. I do not speak a word of French, I’m in my fifth year of Chinese and that like never does me any good in my selected field, so if this phrasing or overall translation is all wrong, bear in mind I’m working with lyrictranslate.com and a recording of Edith Piath.
> 
> 2) So the lyrics of the song in English and the orignal French lyrics are not translations of each other—one is how the song ends in English and the other is the ending verse with the French lyrics. They don’t mean the same thing. I know that much!
> 
> That's kind of it...I liked this chapter, kind of a sweet thing :)  
> Let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHMYGOD THIS IS SO LATE.
> 
> Anyway. Here!

The next pressing issue at hand was, of course, how to incorporate Ron and Hermione into Harry, Draco and Griphook’s tentatively-laid plans for Gringotts.

They could just stay at the house and let Draco, Harry and Griphook carry out the original plan, but no one even bothered to offer that suggestion. Neither Ron nor Hermione would ever go for that, and Harry was grateful for the extra help.

What worried Harry most, however, was the Apparation Recognition spell that the idiot leader of the group that had ambushed Harry and Draco had told them about. Hermione seemed to think the spell was entirely possible, but unfortunately did not know of a way around it, no matter her almost obsessive research.

“I can look again,” she offered, looking doubtful. “I could have missed something, though there truly isn’t a lot on Apparation spells and charms.”

“I doubt you missed anything,” Harry replied, sighing.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go,” Draco offered hesitantly.

Harry shook his head immediately. “No, I have to go. We just need to find something…some counter.”

“Harry, I told you, I couldn't find anything,” Hermione reminded him apologetically.

“What if his physical state is altered enough that the spell can't recognize him as Harry?” Draco asked, considering Harry with a studious stare.

“Like Polyjuice?” Hermione clarified.

“I suppose, maybe.”

“We only have so much left at this point, and if you have to add yours to the stock as well…”

“Hey,” Ron interrupted, blinking as if he had just thought of something. “What about the Invisibility Cloak?”

Harry raised his eyebrows at Hermione and Draco, who looked at each other doubtfully.

“I don’t know,” Hermione began uneasily, “The Invisibility Cloak doesn’t actually _alter_ the wearer’s physical state, just conceals them from view.”

“Yeah, but what if it’s strong enough to repel the magic?” Harry countered.

Hermione and Draco fell silent, each considering the possibility. Ron looked proud.

“We could hope that Griphook knows something,” Draco said finally, shrugging.

“We can ask him when he wakes up, then.” Harry decided, nodding. “Next, we need to figure out how you two are getting into Gringotts.”

He pointed at Ron and Hermione in turn, who looked at each other excitedly.

“Actually,” Hermione smiled at them. “I have Bellatrix’s hair.”

Harry blinked.

“You—what?” Draco stammered, looking completely bewildered.

“Bellatrix made the unfortunate mistake of getting a little too close to me as she was…um, interrogating me,” Hermione explained, drawing a small glass vial from her pocket, showing them how it contained a single coarse black hair.

“Oh my god,” Harry said in a hushed voice, reaching out to take the vial from Hermione.

“So…we went to Knockturn Alley—almost _died_ —and probably at least inadvertently caused the murder of Clearwater—all for nothing,” Draco stated, his tone hard.

“Draco,” Harry admonished, glancing at Hermione.

“She had no idea, neither did you!” Ron retorted hotly.

“Not for nothing,” Hermione interjected quickly, looking worried. “We now have a guaranteed way of getting at least one of you in, and now we know about the Apparation spell.”

Draco looked at her, then Ron, and then Harry, looking a bit sheepish. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Hermione nodded. “It’s quite alright.”

Ron _hmph-_ ed.

“What about you, though?” Harry asked, turning to Ron. “If Griphook and I are under the Invisibility Cloak, and Draco and Hermione are Polyjuiced, what are you going to do?”

“Glamour Charm, right?” Hermione shrugged. “I can make him look unrecognizable. We can pretend he’s not from this country. Sort of like an embassy for…You-Know-Who.”

“That’s quite clever,” Draco said, smiling obviously at her.

She looked at him. “You don’t need to try that hard.”

Draco reddened. “I was serious,” he mumbled, making her laugh.

Ron snorted, but his smug smile was wiped off when Hermione laid a hand on Draco’s upper arm.

“I appreciate your effort,” she said sincerely, smiling kindly.

Harry tried to hide his grin.

Draco and Hermione, it seemed, were getting along more smoothly than Harry ever could have imagined. He was eternally grateful of Hermione’s open mind and apparent capacity for forgiveness, but he could tell Ron was less than thrilled about the almost-friendship between the two.

It had been three days since Ron and Hermione arrived, and the two of them were slowly but surely finding their own pattern to accompany this new dynamic. Of course, the dynamic between Harry and Draco that Hermione and Ron _thought_ they knew and the dynamic they _actually_ had were two wildly different dynamics.

Considering everything, Harry thought that they were doing a pretty good job of keeping the secret of their relationship from his friends, but he was finding it very confusing and very hard to pretend like Draco was any less to him than he really was.

Not that he was overly emotional or particularly publicly affectionate, but it was the little things that they were both forced to suppress that threatened to give him up.

Naturally, Hermione, as he and Draco were painfully aware, seemed to be the only one to catch their screw-ups.

Her gaze would linger on one or both of them whenever they’d look at each other for too long, or touch each other in a way that perhaps blurred the lines of platonic—a stray hair brushed away, a hand above the hip—and Harry would be stuck avoiding her gaze for the next ten minutes.

Blessedly, she never seemed to deem it important enough to ever officially confront him about, so each moment passed without incident and an internal sigh of relief.

Harry just didn’t know how much longer it could go without becoming an issue.

“Should we go see if Griphook’s awake?” Ron suggested, flicking the cupboards open one by one with his wand in search of food.

“Ron, for god’s sake, you just ate breakfast,” Hermione sighed, and he tucked his wand away guiltily.

“Do you think he’s awake?” Harry asked.

“I don’t think we should be responsible for waking him up if he’s not,” Hermione said worriedly.

“You don’t need to worry,” Griphook’s voice suddenly sounded from the doorway, making Harry jump and Draco’s hands curl at his sides.

Hermione’s hand flew to her heart and Ron barely held in a very impressive swear as Griphook strode into the kitchen, surveying them all.

“Did you have something you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Well, we wanted to ask you if you knew anything about the protection that might be in place around Diagon Alley in general,” Hermione said, her voice friendly but her smile a bit strained. She found that even her patience was running low with his infuriating behavior.

Griphook’s eyes narrowed. “Is this to do with Gringotts?”

“Absolutely,” Draco assured him quickly.

“There’s a spell on me,” Harry added. “Some sort of Apparation Recognition spell that lets everyone know the moment I arrive in London.”

“Not just Diagon Alley?”

“It would have to encompass the entire city, we came through the Leaky Cauldron,” Draco answered.

“That is powerful magic,” Griphook said, sounding grim.

“Well,” Hermione countered, “we think we _may_ have something that could…match that power.”

Griphook raised his eyebrows.

“Harry’s Invisibility Cloak,” she continued, watching him closely for any hint of a reaction, “is obviously a _very_ powerful magical object, but we’re not sure if its concealment is strong enough to ward off the detection charms.”

“It is certainly an intriguing idea,” Griphook mused, stroking the growing beard at the end of his chin. “Regardless of the logic, I unfortunately do not know whether or not your Invisibility Cloak would do anything to affect the magic.”

Harry sighed, and Hermione deflated. “Are you sure?” she pressed, a bit desperately.

Griphook stared at her. “Any guess you have would be better than mine. Such inventions have been kept from goblinkind.”

Ron raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to retort, but Hermione subtly elbowed him to keep his silence.

Harry looked down, the solution clear and easy in his mind.

“Well,” he offered, “we’re kind of missing the obvious.”

He didn’t want to say it, knowing the idea would immediately be shot down. It was crazy, he acknowledged that, but it was quite clearly the simplest solution.

Hermione stared at him, the irritation and incomprehension looking uncharacteristic on her face.

“There’s a really easy way to test it,” Harry continued, and saw Hermione’s eyes widen immediately in realization.

“Absolutely not,” she denied him flatly, crossing her arms.

“Potter,” Draco said slowly, “you’re not thinking of doing the colossally stupid thing I think you’re thinking of doing, correct?”

“It’s not colossally stupid!” Harry defended.

“I think I would have to agree with Malfoy on this, it’s incredibly idiotic,” Hermione replied bluntly.

“Are you saying that you’d Apparate to London under your Invisibility Cloak and just…see if people rush at you?” Ron clarified, looking at him like he was insane.

“I mean, I’d be a bit more delicate than that—“ Harry stopped to glare at Draco when he snorted—“but that’s the gist of it, yeah!”

“Harry, it’s _suicide_ ,” Hermione hissed.

“You’re not doing anything like that.” Draco told him resolutely, looking him directly in the air. “I’m not going to let you.”

Hermione’s eyes darted to him.

There was an uncomfortable silence between the four of them, Griphook showing no opinion of Harry’s plan whatsoever.

“He’s not going alone,” Ron finally broke the silence quietly, and Hermione whirled around to face him. He seemed startled by her sudden closeness and jerked back, but Hermione only advanced.

“ _You_ are not going anywhere,” she instructed him, and Ron glanced helplessly towards Harry.

“Neither is Harry!” Draco exclaimed.

“Can I not make this decision for myself?” Harry fumed.

“No!” Hermione and Draco’s voices were a matching chorus.

Ron shrugged at him, and Griphook still merely sat there.

“Fine,” Harry huffed, not admitting that he had never really expected the idea to work.

Hermione nodded in apparent satisfaction and Draco’s eyes softened from a firm resolution to a gentle apology, which only served to irritate Harry further.

“We should move on then,” he said, plopping down in the nearest chair.

“I think that would be wise,” Griphook finally spoke. “Am I correct in assuming we still have accommodate for Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger to accompany us?”

“Actually, the accommodations are taken care of,” Draco replied hurriedly, smiling at Hermione.

Ron cleared his throat. “Hermione managed to get one of Bellatrix’s hairs back at Malfoy Manor,” he added, the pride obvious in his voice.

Hermione smiled at him briefly before once again withdrawing the vial of hair from her robes.

“Is that so?” Griphook said, looking at her curiously. “Quite an impressive feat, Miss Granger.”

Hermione flushed. “Not really,” she replied quietly, still smiling. “The hairs just fell on me when—she was so close, I made sure to just put one in my pocket. Just in case.”

“It’s still amazing,” Ron assured her determinedly. “I wouldn’t have even thought to do that!”

She laughed, turning pinker and glancing at her lap. “Well, thank you, Ron.”

“Are you two done yet?” Draco interjected dryly, raising his eyebrows at the two of them.

Harry wouldn’t have said it so bluntly, but he was admittedly glad for Draco’s expression of the sentiment.

“I’m sure Griphook has more to say,” Harry added, and Hermione cleared her throat and nodded.

“We’ve decided to pass Ron off as a foreign ambassador,” she told Griphook, who inclined his head in interest. “Fictional, of course, just traveling with me.”

“And this would be done using…”

“Glamour Charms,” Harry answered this time. “Like the ones I used for me and Draco.”

Hermione looked a bit worried as Griphook ceased to ask questions, a pregnant silence falling over them all.

Griphook sat back, looking around at them all like he was seeing them in a new light.

“Do you know what I see when I look around at you all?” he said, causing Harry to raise his eyebrows. Hermione looked nervous as she shook her head. “I see three friends who would go to the ends of the Earth for one another. I see another that is prepared to make any sacrifice he must.”

Draco looked away.

“I see love,” the goblin continued, “and I see vast intelligence. I see courage, and fierce determination. So I look at you all and feel, for perhaps the first time since signing on to this endeavor, that together, we may be able to accomplish our daunting task.”

“Oh,” Harry replied simply, trying to come up with something eloquent to say that didn't betray his enormous surprise.

That was the most generous thing the goblin had ever said to any of them, and truthfully, it was one of their more inspiring pep talks they had ever been on the receiving end of.

Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit humbled.

“Thank you,” Draco supplied sincerely.

“Yes, thank you,” Hermione added quickly.

“I think we should set a date to do this,” Ron said, looking at them all challengingly. “With the Ministry, we staked out for months before doing anything, and even that was a last-minute decision.”

Hermione searched him for a moment before nodding her agreement.

“Alright, when?” Harry asked, glancing at Draco quickly to make sure he was on board.

“Remember when we were planning for the Ministry, and we ran into the whole ‘Harry Potter policy’?” Ron recalled, looking at Hermione for support.

“What, the thing about the sightings?” Harry remembered the policy they had gotten a hold of with amusement.

It had been about a month into their preparations, and they had stumbled across a short memo about a new protocol dealing with hypothetical sightings of him. According to the Ministry, Harry had a tendency to be seen and then escape capture (and Harry had to agree with them), so Voldemort’s administration began to take extra precautions. If Harry was sighted anywhere public, security all over Wizarding England would be upgraded to maxium for the next two weeks. After that, security would be slowly phased back down to normal over a two month period, theoretically making it impossible, for a two and a half month period, to make any sort of offensive move.

“Security should be normalized in about two months, right?” Hermione said.

Ron nodded. “Should be. How about three months from today?”

“We can’t wait that long,” Harry shook his head. “You-Know-Who, he has the Elder Wand, remember? He’s going to try and take Hogwarts—I just know that’s his next move.”

Hermione sighed. “Maybe we can try and organize an evacuation,” she said. “Harry, we can’t move any sooner. We really can’t!”

“I say two weeks,” Harry said stubbornly.

“I agree,” Draco said quietly, and Harry smiled his thanks.

“How can you?” Hermione cried, her eyes widening in distress.

“Hermione, I know how dangerous You-Know-Who is right now,” Draco told her, running a hand through his hair. “Three months—this war doesn’t _have_ three months. Not unless you want him to gain ultimate power.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Ron laid a hand on her shoulder apologetically. “I…I think they’re right, ‘Mione.”

Hermione met his eyes in a silent question that he seemed to answer, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly.

“Alright,” she said, finally.

“I can get you into Gringotts in two weeks,” Griphook nodded, finalizing their plan.

“And out?” Draco clarified, smiling weakly.

Griphook looked at him. “And out,” he replied, after a moment.

 

**Two Weeks**

“YOU LET HIM INSIDE YOUR _HEAD_?!” Ron shouted, jumping off of the armchair in front of the fire, gaping at Harry. “You’re letting _Draco Malfoy_ teach you _Occlumency_?!”

Harry flinched. This was not going as well as he had hoped. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, though: alone with Ron with little else to talk about but the dividing factor currently living with them.

_And sleeping with me_ , Harry thought. Although, during the past four days, they’d barely been able to find an excuse to be alone together. If they wanted any time, Harry would have to find an excuse to leave Ron and Hermione’s company. For this reason, they had decided to divulge the information regarding Occlumency lessons.

Ron was not taking it well.

“Ron, you’re being ridiculous!” Harry protested, tired of the argument already and wishing Draco and Hermione would hurry up and get back from the grocery store. He needed backup. “You’ve seen the person he is now, you know he wouldn’t hurt me.”

Ron looked at him curiously. “Just because you’re his best friend now doesn’t make him a saint.”

“Look how good he’s been to you and Hermione, though!” Harry pointed out. “You can’t deny he’s been nothing but civil.”

“Yeah, and I was fine with him until he started messing about in your head!”

Harry sighed. “He’s teaching me how _defend_ my head against people who _do_ want to mess about in it,” he retorted hotly. “Or have you forgotten about You-Know-Who?”

Ron’s shoulders sagged. “Why can’t Hermione do it?”

“Hermione’s never been taught,” Harry explained. “She only knows what she’s been read. Draco actually knows how to do this.”

“And who taught him?” Ron challenged.

Harry hesitated. “Snape,” he answered, and Ron gave a derisive snort. “But it was different!”

“How?”

“Because Snape’s an arsehole who _wanted_ to see me fail. He’s Draco’s godfather, he taught Draco correctly. He’s a right prick, but he’s not an idiot.” Harry answered, and Ron sighed angrily.

“I think Hermione should…keep an eye on you two while you’re doing it,” Ron offered, and Harry’s heart sank.

“Can’t you just trust him?” Harry asked desperately.

Ron shook his head. “No. I can’t.”

Harry sighed.

They both looked towards the doorway as they heart the faint sound of Hermione’s laughter floating in from downstairs, accompanied by Draco’s warm chuckle.

Ron scowled and Harry smiled in relief.

“Ron? Harry?” Hermione called, two sets of footsteps sounding on the steps.

“Living room,” Harry answered.

“I’m going to mention it to her,” Ron warned. “I bet she’ll agree with me.”

“I doubt it,” Harry replied, raising his eyebrows as another one of Hermione’s laughs rang out through the hallway.

Ron’s expression hardened.

“We’ve got food,” Hermione announced, sweeping into the living room, still grinning. “Malfoy’s putting it all up.”

“Good,” Ron said loudly, and Hermione looked at him, confused.

“Ron,” Harry said, not exactly sure of how he was going to continue.

“No, Harry, she needs to know too,” Ron said, and Hermione turned on Harry.

“What do I need to know, exactly?”

“Harry told me something about him and Malfoy,” Ron informed her.

A plate shattered in the kitchen.

“Shit!” came Draco’s voice, along with a muttered “ _Reparo!_ ”

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione asked.

Harry sighed. “He’s been teaching me Occlumency.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh,” she said quietly, hesitation and surprise written all over her face.

“He’s in his _head_!” Ron exclaimed, pointing unnecessarily towards Harry.

“I can hear you,” Draco drawled from the kitchen.

Ron almost growled.

“But I’m learning things that will _protect_ me!” Harry tried, for what seemed like the hundredth time.

Ron just angrily huffed out a breath.

“Harry, can I talk to you? Alone?” Hermione intoned, silencing both Harry and Ron at once, though she never raised her voice above conversational.

Harry glanced at Ron, who gaped at her in incredulity.

“I wouldn’t take that as a total betrayal yet, Wealsey,” Draco said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Draco,” Harry warned sharply, and Draco cast a not-so-apologetic look his way.

Harry sighed and followed Hermione out of the room.

 

“Hermione, you of all people should know how important—“

“I’m not objecting to this.”

Harry stopped mid-sentence, blinking in surprise.

_Close your mouth, you pillock._

When had the voice in his head acquired a tone suspiciously similar to Draco’s?

Harry closed his mouth.

“I just had to get you away from Ron so you can explain this to me,” she continued. “You two are fighting like fourth year again!”

“I’m sorry,” Harry sighed. “I just want him to trust Draco.”

Hermione looked at him curiously for a second, and Harry worried he’d said too much.

“I’m not here to talk about Ron, though,” she said, looking away. “I’m here to talk about Occlumency. You know I’m much more supportive of Malfoy than Ron is—I’m even beginning to actually _like_ him—but it still doesn’t mean I entirely trust him.”

Harry nodded, chewing on his lip to avoid protesting.

“But it’s true that he _knows_ what he’s doing, right?”

“Yeah, Snape taught him.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Snape?”

“Well, yeah—I mean, I know he was an arse to me, but apparently he treated his godson differently.”

That made sense to Harry—especially when Draco explained it—but the way Hermione kept looking at him made him start to question the logic.

“He didn’t teach him some weird Dark Arts version of it,” Harry said. “That’s certainly not what it feels like.”

Hermione’s eyebrows knitted together. “He’s used the spell on you?”

Harry looked down. “Not really,” he admitted. “Just…practice. Mind exercises, that sort of stuff. We haven’t had much time.”

Hermione looked mildly impressed. “I just want to make sure he has your best interests at heart.”

“He does,” Harry assured her. “That’s the only way anything that’s happened would make sense, unless you believe Ron’s crazy theories.”

Hermione smiled, though somewhat sadly. “I don’t. But I _would_ like to sit on a lesson. Just one,” she added, seeing the look on his face. I just want things verified, for me.”

Harry opened his mouth, trying to find a way to deny her, but couldn't come up with a reason. She was right, like always.

“Alright,” he said. “Come to Draco’s room tonight. Bring Ron if he insists.”

“Harry,” she called, after he had turned to leave. “Wait a second.”

Harry’s heart missed a beat, somehow knocking some air out of him. “Okay,” he said simply.

The secrecy with Draco was taking a toll on them both. Any time Hermione or Ron would try and start a conversation, or try to ask them questions about anything from the location of the milk to the absence of toilet paper, Harry’s entire body would tense up and his mind spun out of control. He forced himself to remain cool and casual but the process was beginning get exhausting.

“I don’t know when Ron’s going to come around,” she said.

“Yeah, me neither.”

“I do know that he loves you,” she continued seriously. “That the only reason he’s so mad is because he’s so worried for you. And honestly, I am too.”

Harry blinked, stung. “I thought you were okay with Draco.”

“I am, mostly,” she assured him. “But there’s just…something we’re not getting. Something that we’re not seeing.”

Harry stopped breathing.

_Oh god. Oh god oh fuck oh god._

“Obviously, there’s no real time to figure that out.”

Harry exhaled.

“But until we have that, until we have all the details and we know all about him, and about you two—there’s going to be some tension. Especially with Ron,” Hermione concluded. “I’ll sit in tonight, and if I like what I see, I won’t anymore. Does that sound alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered quickly, placated.

His heart was still beating a bit too quickly.

 

It was so comforting having Harry in his room again.

They didn’t dare lie down together or get too comfortable, both of them tense with the anticipation of Hermione’s arrival.

Still, if he took a few calming breaths and stared at Harry’s quiet figure at the foot of the bed, he could pretend everything was relatively normal again.

Well, _their_ normal.

_Very nice cliche, Draco,_ he thought.

He sighed out loud and sat down next to Harry.

“What if she thinks I _am_ trying to corrupt you?” he asked, slowly twirling his wand in his hands.

“Well, you’re not, are you?”

“No,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “But what if she _thinks_ —“

“Hermione’s not going to think anything that isn’t true,” Harry assured him firmly. “You know she’s smarter than that.”

“I just don’t want to put myself in any more risk to be murdered in my sleep by Weasley.”

Harry snorted. “I don’t have such great advice for you there.”

Draco groaned. “Then what’s the point of you?”

Harry shoved him.

There was a soft knock at the door then, signaling Hermione’s arrival.

Harry jumped up to answer the door and Draco slowly stood.

“Hi, Hermione,” Harry said, injecting pleasantry into his voice.

“Hello,” she replied, giving them both a shy smile. It was immediately clear to Draco that she was well aware of her intrusion.

He inclined his head towards her, smiling slightly. She received the gesture with relief, exhaling and stepping further into the room.

“I’m sorry about this,” she said, and Draco shook his head.

“I understand,” he said. “I’m not upset.”

It was half true.

“Well, Malfoy—I have sort of a specific request that goes along with all of this.”

Draco pursed his lips. “Okay,” he said.

“I need you to use the Legilimens spell on me,” she said, straightening her posture.

“Hermione—“

“Granger, I don’t think I can do that to you,” Draco cut into Harry’s protest, appealing directly to Hermione. “You have no idea what that spell—do you know anything about Occlumency?”

“Only what I’ve read,” she replied. “But the purpose is not for me to block the spells. I want to see…how accomplished you are, simply and bluntly put.”

“You do realize I’ll be able to see…whatever’s in your mind, right?” Draco warned her, thoroughly startled by her request.

“I’m ready for that,” she responded.

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, looking the opposite. “It can be very…unpleasant.”

“I don’t believe that Malfoy is at all like Snape,” she said, smiling assuredly at Draco.

Harry sat back. “Alright.”

“Do you…do you want me to do it now?” Draco asked.

“No, not now. I want you to do a normal lesson first, and then at the end…you can do it then.”

Draco nodded.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” she said, leaning against the wall opposite Draco. She smiled at them both again.

Harry sighed and walked towards Draco.

“Alright,” Draco said, blowing air through his nose and focusing on Harry. “You need to relax. You can’t be tense and worried and unfocused through this.”

Harry nodded. “I know.”

Draco snorted. “So do it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Hermione’s hand fly up to her mouth to suppress a giggle.

Harry closed his eyes and started the breathing exercises they had practiced before.

Draco stepped closer and placed his hands on Harry’s shoulders unthinkingly.

He heard Hermione shuffle against the wall and almost yanked his hands back, but it _was_ part of their routine.

“Legilimency and Occlumency are not separate fields. They are offense and defense, they are—“

“—two sides of the same coin,” Harry finished for him, and Draco nodded.

“Exactly. Now, we’re going to do the pushing thing again. I’m going to push you and you’re going to push back. And remember, don’t think about carrots.”

Harry nodded again, keeping his eyes closed, and a piece of hair fell in front of his eyes. Draco resisted the urge to brush it away, glancing again at Hermione watching them intently.

Draco exhaled and pushed Harry gently backwards. “Carrots.”

Harry leaned into the touch and Draco brought him back to center, waiting a few moments before pressing back again. “Carrots.”

This went on for a while with remarkable success until Draco switched unexpectedly to “flowers”, causing Harry’s eyes to blink open in surprise.

“That’s not fair,” he said immediately.

“You don’t get a warning with Legilimency,” Draco pointed out. “What you need to do is think of _one_ specific thought, not try and cast around for a new thought every time I speak.”

Harry looked at him before nodding resignedly. “Okay. I’m hungry.”

Draco looked towards Hermione, who seemed to take that as her initiative to re-introduce herself. She pushed herself off of the wall and walked towards them excitedly, looking fascinated.

“Is this the sort of thing you always do?” she asked immediately, and Harry nodded. “That’s really quite good, I think!”

Draco smiled. “I’m glad you think so.”

Hermione’s expression changed from wonder to anxiety in a flash as she eyed Draco’s wand. “So…I’m ready now.”

Draco cleared his throat and nodded. “Okay, but as soon as it’s too much, you have to tell me, and I promise I’ll stop.”

“Oh, I’ll be alright,” she replied, looking down. “Mind magic like this shouldn’t affect my brain injury, according to the Healer.”

Draco glanced at Harry and back to Hermione pointedly. He nodded silently and stepped closer to her.

“Alright, Hermione,” Draco said, and Hermione’s gaze snapped up to him, her eyes wide with surprise.

“You called me Hermione,” she said, and Draco realized he _had,_ completely without thought. It sounded natural, even.

“You can call me Draco,” he replied, and she smiled widely. Draco’s eyes flitted to Harry, who was beaming affectionately at him. He flushed and turned back to Hermione.

“Here we go, then?” he asked, sobering everyone in the room up immediately.

She nodded determinedly.

Draco took a deep breath.

“ _Legilimens,”_ he intoned quietly, pointing his wand straight at Hermione’s head.

He closed his eyes at a transparent flash of light, and heard Hermione’s sharp intake of breath.

Immediately, he felt the connection between them solidify and opened his eyes to Hermione’s memories.

He was greeted immediately with the sight of a sniffling little girl with wildly curly brown hair, holding some sort of gaudy doll, trying desperately to smooth the doll’s frizzy blonde hair.

The girl that he presumed was young Hermione finally set the doll aside and drew her small legs up to her chest, the very pink leggings stretching over her chubby knees.

Hermione raised a hand to her own bushy curls, trying to flatten it with a shuddery sigh.

Draco felt incredibly obvious standing in little Hermione’s living room, watching her cry over her hair, and quickly decided to switch memories.

He pushed past the barrier separating him from the memory and the flash of light returned, and he found himself this time in the Hogwarts library, staring at another version of Hermione. She looked about thirteen, dozens of books spread about her on the floor between two shelves. She was devouring a page of one in particular, hardly looking up when a second-year Ginny Weasley emerged from the shelves, her small arms carrying another set of books.

The memory shifted again and he was inside of a very familiar tent, facing a sleeping Hermione that looked remarkably similar to the one still standing in the room with him and Harry. Even closed, he could see the red puffiness of the skin around her eyes and see tear tracks glittering on her now peaceful face.

There was a creak of a chair behind him and he whirled around and noticed present-day Harry with a shock. Harry looked straight past him to his friend in the armchair, a broken sort of look on his face and arms full of a knitted blanket. He crossed to Hermione slowly and covered her with the blanket, unearthing a book from her lap and setting it aside as he did so.

“Night, ‘Mione,” he whispered quietly, his voice full of sadness that tore at Draco’s heart and walked away.

Draco noticed Hermione’s eyes open and her smile just before Harry turned out the lights.

He was just about to retreat from the spell altogether when something completely alien occurred.

The barrier that separated him from the memory started to close in on him, the picture in front of him weakening with the increasing pressure.

Panicking, Draco tried to exit the bubble he was in but found himself sucked away into another flash of light.

He was in a Muggle grocery store.

He blinked in the harsh fluorescent lights, confused and scared as to what was going on.

Belatedly, he realized where he was with a renewed flood of panic and whirled around to see—

_Oh shit._

This was _his_ memory, and that was Harry rushing towards him and his own, few-weeks-ago-self turning around in shock at Harry’s voice.

Hermione must have found a way to reverse the spell—to infiltrate _his_ mind as some sort of defensive-turned-offensive tactic.

He watched in horror as Harry flew at him and wrapped his arms around his other self, trying desperately to escape the memory.

Another flash of light and he, Harry and Alexander were all standing in the kitchen, Harry looking obviously mutinous on the other side of the room. The scene abruptly shifted to Harry backing him against the wall—

Draco had to yell, he had to do _something_ —

And memory-Harry kissed memory-Draco, hungry and demanding, and Draco’s insides froze in terror.

Memory-Draco responded enthusiastically, and even in his panicked state Draco felt a rush of energy at the mere recollection at what had happened, marveled somewhat distantly how much his life had changed from then.

Mostly, though, he was horrified at what Hermione must have seen.

The scene dissolved again, but they were in the kitchen, and Draco recognized the scene immediately as the aftermath of his accidental love confession.

“I want to know what I mean to you,” he heard memory-Harry say.

_Oh fuck, oh no—_

“I don’t know exactly how someone would measure something like that,” memory-Draco answered. “Evidently, you mean more than…life. You mean enough that I would do anything you tell me to do.”

_Shut up. Please. Disappear. Fuck._

“You mean more than my sins,” memory-Draco added. “That means a whole fucking lot, for someone to be that…much. I meant it when I said it—you mean _everything_ to me.”

“I love you too,” he said, and memory-Draco froze.

Real Draco sighed and shuddered, no longer trying to fight the current. He was drowning, he was going to die. Weasley was going to kill him.

“I—I love you, don’t I?”

“For how long?”

“Since…since always, somehow.”

With a sharp snap and a last flash of light, Hermione and Draco were brought dizzyingly back to reality, gasping and some sort of noise coming from both of them.

Draco was desperately yelling something, he wasn’t sure what, and Hermione was standing in shock near the bed, grasping the corner post and staring at him with eyes wide as saucers.

Harry was moving frantically between the two of them, fear and confusion evident on his face.

Draco gulped in a few breaths of air to steady himself, trying to stop the shaking in his hands and as he stood, accepting Harry’s help.

“Hermione,” he began shakily. “How—how did you even—“

“What happened?!” cried Harry, looking back and forth between them.

Draco swallowed, his stomach rolling. “She—she found a new defense, or something—she ended up reversing the spell, or something—“

Hermione shook her head, her mouth still hanging open. “I—I remembered what you said about pushing back, the sort of give-and-take relationship, and I just—I didn’t like the memories, so I…pushed back,” she concluded in a whisper.

“Pushed back…” Harry’s face went slack as realization seemed to hit him. “Did she—Hermione, what did you _see_?”

Hermione looked at him, still completely astounded.

“ _Harry—_ “

Harry looked at Draco, the fear screaming in his eyes.

Draco nodded slowly.

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, and Draco nodded dumbly. “Hermione—“

“You love him,” she said quietly, stopping Harry short. She was staring at Draco now, looking as though she was holding her breath.

Draco searched her for an answer, completely unsure of what to say.

Her earnest eyes seemed to be holding something back, almost like she was looking for the final piece to a puzzle.

He really couldn’t imagine how this could any worse, so he opted for the truth.

Keeping his eyes locked with Hermione’s, he nodded once.

She breathed out, her hand slipping from its death grip on the corner post. “Oh my god,” she breathed. “You’re in love. That’s— _oh_.”

She let out a shaky laugh and dropped her head in her hands, her breathing appearing to normalize.

“Hermione, you’ve got to understand—“ Harry tried again desperately, but Hermione shook her head.

“I understand,” she replied, smiling at him. “I _finally_ understand.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, the puzzling reaction not doing anything for his anxiety.

“I mean, there was _obviously_ something we were missing,” she explained. “It’s what I was talking about earlier. Something drastic had changed. You two were connected, somehow—this whole time, I feel like I’ve been looking at both of you through some sort of film—god, I was such an _idiot_!”

“You’re not—“ Harry began haltingly. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” Hermione repeated incredulously. “I’m so— _relieved._ ”

Draco blinked. “Are you…sure?”

“Don’t you see?” she pressed, staring at the both of them like her revelation was incredibly obvious. “There’s no…conspiracy now. There’s no wrong. There’s no motive. Draco, you _love_ him. That’s…why. That’s why all of this happened.”

“So…our relationship… _proves_ something to you?” Draco clarified, completely confused.

Hermione sighed. “Would you do anything for Harry?”

“Yes,” Draco answered immediately.

“And who do you have to lose?”

“My mother,” he replied honestly. “And…Harry.”

“Then there’s your motive,” she said. “There’s the reason you’re just as much a part of all of this as I am, there’s your reason for us to trust you.”

Draco tore his eyes away from her encouraging face to look up at Harry, who stared back at him in amazement.

“Ron will be so relieved,” Hermione sighed happily, and Draco’s stomach bottomed out again.

“Weasley can’t know!” he exclaimed, and Harry nodded his agreement.

“You have to tell him some time!” Hermione protested.

“And we will,” Harry assured her. “Just...I don’t want him to strangle Draco in his sleep.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“No, Wealsey is,” Draco corrected. “We’re just accommodating.”

She sighed. “You have to tell him after Gringotts.”

Draco sighed too, and looked at Harry, who nodded solemnly.

“Alright,” he agreed. “After Gringotts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, I don't think I have much to say...but yeah, I'm sure you can imagine what's coming.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty routine chapter coming up...and I'm pretty on time with this one!  
> I've gotten so much writing done, you should definitely have the next one on time too, if not the next two!
> 
> Anyway....

**One Week**

It was honestly quite a relief to have Hermione know about them, all things considered.

Whatever roadblock there had been between Hermione and Draco before she had found was gone, replaced by a quickly growing friendship that no one had really anticipated, least of all Ron.

Every time either one of them did so much as laugh at the other’s joke, he would lapse into a furious silence for the next ten or so minutes, sometimes until Draco was gone altogether.

Draco thought it was funny, but Harry and Hermione weren’t nearly as amused. The way Ron was acting was scarily similar to his behavior around Slytherin’s locket, right before he had left them.

Harry was confident that Ron wouldn’t leave again, no matter how angry he got, but he could tell Hermione was not as certain. Every time he’d make a nasty comment or glare for too long at any of them, Hermione would raise sad and scared eyes to him, saying nothing.

He usually saw Hermione’s expression and softened immediately, but other times he was in too sour a mood to notice anything else, stalking out at random times and upsetting everyone around him.

It was making Gringotts preparations especially difficult, especially seeing as they had only seven days left before they would put their plan into action.

Hermione still insisted that the easiest solution to the tension between the group was just to come clean to Ron about everything—after all, she really hated to lie to him. But both Harry and Draco were still extremely wary, and unsure of how Ron would even interpret the truth.

Harry knew as well as anyone that it was one thing to tell Ron, flat out: _yeah, Draco and I are in love and it’s really great_ and quite another for Ron to even take it the right way. The possibility of Ron taking that to mean _Draco is controlling my lust-addled brain with his mighty penis, dear god man help me_ was just too great a possibility for the conversation to even be considered as worthwhile.

Until, of course, the day that Ron decided to come to _him_ with a concern about Draco’s…intentions. Harry had accounted for this, of course, and had a flat-out denial and cover story all completely prepared. He did not expect, however, to be completely unable to use any of it.

Ron was watching carefully as Draco and Hermione left the house again to replenish their food stock, shaking his head at their easy conversation. As soon as the two were gone, he turned to Harry with a mutinous look in his eye, leaning in conspiratorially to talk in a low voice even though they were now alone (save Griphook, who had taken to frequent walks around the grounds).

“Do you see it too?” he asked, and Harry repressed a sigh at the irritating vagueness of it. He realized with surprise that it probably wouldn’t have bothered him a month ago.

“See what?” he answered instead, deciding to take the bait.

“Malfoy and Hermione,” Ron pressed, as if his suspicions were obvious to everyone.

“She _does_ seem to be refraining from strangling him—maybe she could give you pointers,” Harry said.

Ron brushed off the jibe with a shake of his head. “It’s more than that, mate—I think Draco’s trying to seduce Hermione.”

Harry blinked, and then let out a bark of laughter.

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake,_ he thought. _Can we not catch just one fucking break?_

“ _Seduce_ Hermione,” he repeated, and Ron nodded. “You sound like those romance novels your mum reads.”

“Well, whatever, but you know what I mean!”

Harry sighed. “I don’t think I do,” he deflected. “Maybe you just…don’t really understand their relationship so you…misinterpret it.”

“They shouldn’t even _have_ a relationship for me to…not understand!” Ron exclaimed, flopping back in his chair.

“You can’t dictate who Hermione has relationships with,” Harry said seriously. “You know that.”

Ron waved him off. “I’m not trying to _control_ her or anything,” he said. “If she told me she wanted to…faff off and marry Charlie this instant…I wouldn’t feel like this. But this, between them, is a little too close to a Kneazle-Hippogriff situation.”

“A what?”

“You know, the kneazle that blindly searches for stuff and then the cold hippogriff that just takes advantage of it.” Ron explained, and Harry laughed.

“Like the lion and the lamb.”

Ron looked at him. “Muggles are weird.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“About lions and lambs or about Hermione and Malfoy?”

“Hermione and Draco.” Harry sat back in his chair, not looking at Ron. “I don’t think there’s anything there.”

“You don’t _think_ ,” Ron emphasized, and Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing at the sheer irony of it.

“I’m fairly certain.”

 

**Six Days**

“You know what might fix this whole thing?” Draco asked, sprawled comfortably across Harry’s lap as Harry discreetly tried to braid his hair.

“What?”

“If Weasley just walked in, right now.”

Harry dropped the strand of hair he was holding. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to agree with Hermione on that,” he said, looking worriedly down at Draco.

Draco sighed. “Not exactly,” he answered, “But it’s getting so…tedious, almost. Having to hide.”

“Well, it’s not like things would change much even if he _did_ know,” Harry replied, moving on to a different section of hair. “We wouldn’t be able to…do anything remotely like this in front of him.”

“I know,” Draco groaned. “I know, I know, I know.”

On an impulse, Harry bent down and kissed the top of the blond’s head. Draco started, surprised, looking up at him with a smile.

“It’ll be alright,” Harry said, undoing a messy braid with a pull of his finger.

Draco settled back down, nodding.

Harry’s hands returned to his hair and Draco reached up in response, feeling Harry’s fingers.

“Potter, what are you doing to my hair?”

“Shh, it’s pretty.”

 

**Five Days**

Tensions were high.

With the deadline for Gringotts fast approaching and an immeasurable number of ‘last minute tips’ from Griphook swirling around their minds, even Draco and Harry found themselves wanting to be completely alone—away from the pressure from Hermione to tell Ron, the animosity from both Ron and Griphook and the dizzying anxiety that gripped all of them whenever they thought about Gringotts.

Harry had taken to even more Occlumency lessons from Draco just to have an excuse to not think about anything for a while—and he didn’t mind the fact that they usually turned into snogging sessions after a while anyway. But this lesson was supposed to be different, however, as Harry finally felt he was ready for a magical application of what he had learned.

“Now, this spell has been used on you before,” Draco said, “so you’ll remember what it feels like. Hopefully, though, you won’t feel as…invaded, because I’m not going to go for very private or secretive memories. I’m just going to go to vague, neutral ones that you probably don’t even remember.”

Harry frowned, feeling suddenly unsure. “Then how am I supposed to resist it if I don’t know what you’re going to focus on?”

“Well,” replied Draco, “while it’s true that you’ll usually know _generally_ what you’re supposed to hide from someone, they could root around in your head for all sorts of information that could give them to the information they want. For now, just focus on a memory and push it to the forefront of your mind as sort of a roadblock. Just a harmless, innocent memory.”

Harry nodded, breathing deeply.

“Are you ready?”

Harry nodded again, mentally reliving the memory of his first Quidditch practice.

Draco raised his wand. “ _Legilimens!_ ”

A flash of light and Harry found the memory’s vividness increasing drastically. They were both almost slapped in the face with a brilliantly shining sun, commanding yells and sharp gusts of wind.

Teenagers in scarlet robes on brooms whizzed in complicated patterns all through the air, whoops of success and groans of failure accompanying harsh directions.

Harry saw himself, the young age of eleven, sitting on top of his Nimbus 2000, looking down at the scene below him with alarm and amazement.

“POTTER!” Oliver Wood bellowed. “I’M GOING TO RELEASE THE SNITCH NOW!”

Harry’s eyes got even wider as he nodded, settling down into position on his broom.

Present-day Harry smiled unthinkingly, and the scene suddenly lurched violently, causing Harry to lose focus altogether.

The scene shattered and he had the short sensation of falling before he recognized what was happening, trying to cry for help as he landed in the backseat of Arthur Weasley’s Ford Angela.

Harry realized that this was Draco’s spell, and this was the memory he had chosen. With a sinking feeling, Harry knew he had broken past whatever defense was able to put up.

He watched absently as twelve-year-old Harry and Ron joked about the students on the Hogwarts Express, something Harry now found vaguely annoying.

The memory flickered again, and the light from the sun intensified, bleaching out the scene altogether.

Harry opened his eyes with a gasp and found himself in Draco’s bedroom.

The blond was lowering his wand and tucking it away with an encouraging smile, making Harry roll his eyes.

“That wasn’t at all a bad attempt for your first time, Harry,” Draco told him genuinely, as if Harry had spoken his sentiment out loud.

“You just pushed past that memory!” Harry replied. “There wasn’t any defense at all!”

“That’s not what happened.” Draco said calmly. “What happened is that you broke your focus. Granted, I wasn’t pushing as hard as an attacker would, but I wasn’t able to break the initial defense of that memory. You stopped pushing once you saw its potency and got distracted. That’s when I was able to pinpoint a weak spot.”

Harry looked down, feeling embarrassed.

“That makes sense,” he mumbled.

“Are you ready to go again?” Draco asked suddenly, and Harry looked up at him in surprise.

“Already?”

“If you want.”

“Okay, wait,” Harry said slowly, concentrating on his task. “So I focus on the memory and I hold it there, don’t let you push past it.”

Draco nodded. “Do you have another memory?”

“Mhm.”

“Alright then.” Draco raised his wand once more. “ _Legilimens!”_

They found themselves thrust almost violently into another memory, the ground below their feet resurfacing into the hard and patchy earth just outside The Burrow.

Newly-seventeen-year-old Harry sat with Ron at the base of a tree, Harry seemingly absorbed and amused by _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches,_ and Ron reading over his shoulder with a grin.

Present-Harry could almost hear the laughter Draco surely felt, but he only focused harder on the memory. He set about recalling the intimate detail, focusing intently on the wind that day, how bright the sun was, what parts of the book made Harry laugh and which parts Ron insisted worked like a charm.

He suddenly felt an immense pressure closing in around him, and around the memory, and immediately recognized it to be Draco.

He pushed back, but the pressure had already thrown him off. The memory didn’t change, however; it merely shifted.

He could hear a snake hissing, he could feel cold stone up against his back— _no, wait—_

He fought back on instinct, ignoring the surge of panic and shoving his mind away from the graveyard and back to The Burrow, that stupid book—

Almost immediately, he felt another attack push down further, and he could see, briefly, a glimpse of a full moon.

 _Burrow,_ he thought, _Burrow! Burrow!_

It materialized in front of them again on Harry’s command, but Harry didn’t have to keep it up for much longer before Draco lifted the spell.

He gasped for air, perhaps unnecessarily, as he was thrown back into reality. He felt Draco’s arms around him at once before he shoved him off, backing away and pressing a hand to his head.

“What the _hell_ , Draco?” Harry panted, glaring at the regretful-looking blond on the other side of the room. “You said you weren’t going to go for those memories!”

“I’m sorry,” Draco apologized immediately. “I lied. It was another exercise.”

Harry exhaled, his breathing returning to normal. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said again.

Harry looked at him, allowing the blond to come closer. “It’s alright. Just don’t—can you not lie anymore?”

Draco hesitated, but nodded. “That should be fine.”

“Okay then,” Harry said, reaching a hand out for Draco.

Draco took it and pulled him in closer, brushing a hand across Harry’s forehead to move the hair out of his eyes.

Harry got the impression Draco was making sure he was completely okay, so he held still as Draco tried to subtlety complete a routine check. After he was done, Draco sighed and rested his hands solidly on Harry’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, really,” Harry assured him.

“That last one was…surprisingly effective. I couldn’t get past your defenses at all at first,” Draco said encouragingly, and Harry smiled in response.

“You’re a good teacher.”

“Are you tired?” Draco fretted, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Nope,” Harry lied, stepping closer to Draco. “Not at _all_ ,” he whispered, dropping his head close to Draco’s ear.

Draco laughed, and gently moved Harry away from him. “Yes you are. I know you didn’t get much sleep last night, and Occlumency is very tiring.”

Harry pouted. “It’s been too _long_ ,” he whined.

“What has?”

They both jumped violently at the sound of Ron’s voice, coming from the door that they had stupidly left open.

Harry’s mind went blank as he stared at Ron, who was looking expectantly at them both.

“Pancakes,” he said thickly, blinking. “Draco said he didn’t feel like making pancakes.”

“I said that I don’t have the _ingredients_ ,” Draco pretended to correct him smoothly, rolling his eyes. “Hermione and I didn’t get flour at the store.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll go with her to get some, if it means that much to you.”

Harry bit back an exasperated sigh.

“Sure,” Draco replied quickly. “I was going to take a nap before our meeting with Griphook.”

“Okay then,” Ron said stiffly, nodding and walking away.

“ _Jesus_ , that was close,” Harry exhaled, stepping further away from Draco.

“Did you ever even go to church?” Draco asked, raising his eyebrows at the ‘ _Jesus_ ’.

Harry snorted. “’Course I did. Well, until I was five. Every Sunday.”

“What happened when you were five?”

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Harry smiled. “I started presenting my magic, I think,” he responded. “Aunt Petunia must have thought I was beyond saving at that point. _They_ still went, but they left me at home. It probably had something to do with their reputation as well.”

“Did you ever believe in that, though?”

Harry looked at him in surprise. “Are you asking me about religion?”

Draco pursed his lips, looking unsure, but nodded.

Harry blinked. “I never thought about it,” he replied, the actual thought entering seriously in his mind for the first time. “It never seemed…I don’t know, _real_? It never mattered.”

Draco nodded slowly again. “What about Hermione?”

“Her family never went to church,” Harry replied, remembering her off-handed response to one of Ron’s questions, one lazy day years ago. “She probably thought about it more than I did. Why?”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know. The whole thing…it seemed so ridiculous to me for so long. It was something so _Muggle_ …but I realize that’s a bit hypocritical of me.”

Harry looked at him curiously, trying to keep the skepticism out of his face and voice. “You think there’s something to it, then?”

“No, not really,” Draco shook his head, a wry smile forming as he dropped his gaze. “It’s just…the whole Savior thing, the reassurance of…fate, and comfort…I guess I can see the appeal.”

Harry nodded, and they were both quiet for a long time.

Draco eventually breathed out, somewhat breaking the silence. Harry looked at him.

“I can’t speak for the Holy Trinity,” Harry said slowly, “Or…the universe, Ying and Yang or whatever—“

Draco cringed. “Merlin, Potter, _I_ know more Muggle history than you do.”

“—or whatever! I _can_ say, though, that _I_ won’t let anything happen to you. Or, rather, I won’t let it…not be okay in the end. We’ll be okay.”

Draco smiled at him fondly. “I knew you had a hero complex, but this whole divinity thing is a new level.”

Harry closed his eyes and grinned, flipping up two fingers at him.

He received a pillow to the head in response.

 

**Two Days**

Harry was nervously pacing the hallway that connected the kitchen to the living room, turning the Invisibility Cloak over in his hands and trying to decide what to do.

Everyone was asleep—Harry didn’t know what exact time it was but the moon through the tall and narrow windows was his only light source as he moved, trying to be as silent as possible.

It was a surprisingly still night; usually, summer nights in Amsterdam were, in Harry’s experience, fairly noisy. In the nervousness that accompanied his undecided plans, Harry found he missed the duet of the cicadas and crickets that usually served to keep him up. April had brought wind and rain, but May was proving to be a very peaceful month for weather.

Harry shook himself—weather should be the last thing on his mind.

They were two days out from their Gringotts heist, and the only big unknown in their plan was, at this point, Harry’s Invisibility Cloak.

Everyone except Harry and Griphook remained adamant that Harry was not to try and test its protection—that they would do that the day of and call it off if it didn’t work. They seemed to think there was more safety in numbers, but Harry didn’t think they could afford to be so cautious.

There wasn’t _time_ to wait any longer. Voldemort was closing in fast on Hogwarts and had been trying to set up camp there for weeks.

Draco’s Occlumency lessons were helping in shutting most of the visions out, but the strong flashes of anger or triumph or frustration still got through, and he’d sometimes wake from sleep with the vague concept of information, usually only unsettling him. He had the feeling they were rapidly running out of time.

The plan for Gringotts absolutely _had_ to go well.

He made up his mind with this last thought, striding quietly into the kitchen, towards the stairs.

“Mate?”

Harry whirled around at the sound of Ron’s voice, sleepy but wary.

“Hey,” Harry replied weakly. “Just wanted some air.”

Ron eyed him suspiciously as he walked down a few more steps. “No, you were going to see if the Cloak worked in Diagon Alley.”

Harry blinked down at the material at his hands. “No use in asking ‘how’d this get here’, then?”

“It’s dangerous,” Ron said simply.

“Well damn, I wish I had some experience with dangerous situations,” Harry deadpanned, balling the material in his hands up defiantly.

Ron stepped down a few more steps and into a stream of moonlight. Harry noticed he was dressed.

“I’m coming with you,” Ron announced, holding his arms out as if to show off his clothing.

“Ron,” Harry said, completely surprised.

“No, I am. If you’re going to do something mental, then at least respect tradition and do it with me.” Ron said determinedly, marching to Harry’s side.

Harry looked at him for a moment, feeling a slightly shameful surge of happiness at Ron’s sudden loyalty. “Alright,” he agreed, turning and descending the stairs to the bottom level of the house, Ron right behind him.

“I didn’t tell Hermione about this, by the way,” Ron told him, careful to keep his voice low.

Harry nodded. “God, they’re going to be so mad when they find out.”

Ron shook his head. “What’s Malfoy gonna care?”

Harry fought back a frustrated sigh. “Believe it or not, he _would_ care if one of us was suddenly captured by Death Eaters.”

Ron didn’t reply immediately, but Harry could sense his dissatisfaction.

“I dunno, Harry,” he finally sighed. “I just can’t…trust him.”

“Didn’t I tell you to give him a chance, though?”

“It’s just so hard to! I feel like the second I let my guard down, he’s gonna…do something to you. Or Hermione.”

“Can’t you at least trust me when I say he won’t?” Harry tried.

“You know I trust you, mate, but I just can’t believe that.” Ron replied grimly.

Harry fell silent as they reached the bottom floor, not really wanting to voice his true thoughts.

He was beginning to think that Ron’s protectiveness didn’t have so much to do with Draco and had more to do with the guilt Ron still felt about leaving them. Somehow, it seemed to be making him feel like everything that had gone wrong since his return—the Lovegoods’ house, Malfoy Manor, Hermione’s injury—had been his fault.

He pushed all of that out of his mind for the moment, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

“We should Apparate outside,” Harry reasoned. “The noise should be lesser.”

Ron nodded and they moved quietly out of the house, exerting a lot of care into opening and closing the door as silently as possible.

“Harry, we’re idiots,” Ron whispered in his ear as they moved across the lawn.

“Why?” Harry asked, stopping short.

“We’re wizards,” Ron answered, drawing his wand. “Which means we can do a Silencing Charm.”

Harry blinked, feeling embarrassed. “Oh.”

At least it was Ron with him instead of Hermione, or even Draco.

Ron cast _Muffliato_ on the house as a whole and another on both him and Harry, nodding sort of unnecessarily to Harry once he was finished.

“Alright,” Harry started, “I was thinking that we should Apparate in the same place Draco and I ended up the last time we came to Diagon Alley. I don’t know exactly when the spell should activate, if it does, but we should be under the Cloak the entire time.”

Ron nodded. “Alright. Let’s go, before I have a chance to change my mind.”

Harry grinned at him. “You wouldn’t.”

Ron rolled his eyes as Harry threw the cloak over both of them, making sure they were covered completely before taking a deep breath and Disapparating.

 

They landed, invisible, in the same alley Harry and Draco had landed in what seemed an eternity ago.

They stabilized themselves, checking to make sure they were both invisible before looking around, hardly daring to make noise.

It was impossible to tell if he had set off any magical alarm, Harry realized. Either the spell was completely silent, or he hadn’t set it off yet. Or both. He stood, almost pressed up against Ron, both of them rigid with tension and straining to hear yells or shouts or something.

They heard nothing, and with a nod of his head, Harry suggested they move on. Ron nodded back and they moved carefully towards the front of the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry opened the door and they stepped forward quickly, relieved to find the pub completely empty, save Tom at the bar.

This surprised him—Harry had fully expected Tom to be asleep in these early morning hours, but he was cleaning his station by candlelight, a tired and haggard look on his face.

Tom looked up immediately, a wary expression on his face, but upon seeing no one, his expression fell to one of exasperation.

“Damn door,” he muttered, shaking his head and resuming his activity of wiping the counter.

Harry breathed again and tugged on Ron’s arm to signal that he was ready to move again. Ron nodded again in Harry’s peripheral vision and they moved slowly and quietly towards the back of the bar, desperately trying not to make any noise in the silent bar.

Even with Ron’s _Muffliato_ on the both of them, it still seemed that Tom could easily hear the shallow and restrained breathing of them, the quiet press of their shoes on the wooden floor or the rustle of their clothes as they moved past him.

As they finally moved past the doorway that put them out of Tom’s sight, Ron slowly drew his wand as Harry continued to walk towards the brick wall. Ron tapped the right brick and they looked at each other grimly as the bricks gave way to the entrance, the sight of the Alley in the middle of the night no less depressing than the sight of it at noon.

They stepped forward, and Harry inhaled expectantly.

No alarm sounded, but he hadn’t really thought anything would alert him to the spell’s presence.

“Maybe it’s not…on,” Ron suggested, but Harry shook his head.

“No one would be that lax with security,” he replied.

They walked forward again, keeping a keen eye out for any large men (or large women, Harry supposed) charging towards them.

They got as far as 100 meters before they stopped dead in their tracks: two men in uniform were walking casually down the street towards them, talking amicably about something that didn’t matter. One laughed as the other’s story seemed to reach a climax, the noise disproportionately loud in the quiet atmosphere.

Ron clamped a hand on Harry’s arm and they quickly shuffled to the sidewalk, watching the two guards pay them absolutely no mind.

The bigger one shoved the smaller one playfully, the name “Stamford” accompanied with a string of curses as they passed Harry and Ron.

They watched as the men retreated from view, disappearing down a side alley and leaving Harry and Ron alone once more.

“Ron,” Harry dared to breathe. “I think it works.”

 

It was some fifteen minutes later that they arrived back at the Cornelissons’s house, yanking the Cloak off of both of them and balling it up.

Harry grinned as he stuffed it under his arm, _shh_ ing Ron’s victorious laughter.

“They’re still asleep, Ron—“ he began, but stopped completely at the sight in front of them, Ron’s laughter also abruptly dying as he saw it too.

Hermione Granger striding furiously towards you in the darkness of the night in her dressing gown was among the scarier things Harry had ever seen, and he considered for a moment Apparating back to London. He was reminded, for a moment, of an early morning almost six years earlier, and Mrs. Weasley giving her three sons the telling-off of a lifetime about a flying car rescue mission.

Flanking her was Draco—with the same expression of fury on his face and evident even in the way he stalked towards the both of them. Harry swallowed.

_Oh, shit._

“RONALD WEASLEY!” Hermione shrieked, her voice filled with what seemed to Harry like a thousand matriarchs before her all screaming at once. “HARRY JAMES POTTER!”

“Hey,” Ron greeted faintly, smiling weakly, raising a hand. Harry wondered absently if this would always be the way he dealt with an aggressive Hermione.

Harry switched his attention to the Slytherin marching towards him, completely silent compared to Hermione’s screaming.

Harry avoided Hermione with a side-step, wincing as he almost heard the lightning crack as Ron started arguing back. He waited nervously until Draco reached him, the blond stopping five feet in front of him and crossing his arms, staring at Harry with a deathly cold expression on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologized immediately, and he meant it.

“YOU LEFT AGAIN! YOU WERE _GONE_ , AND HARRY WAS _GONE_ —“ Hermione was yelling behind them, and Harry jumped at the mention of his name.

“You didn’t even _bother_ to tell me,” Draco said, his words sharp and abhorred. “You didn’t leave a note—I thought you could be _dead_ and I wouldn’t even know.”

“Of course I wasn’t dead,” Harry replied quietly, looking behind him at Ron, pale white and horrified as Hermione yelled. He stepped closer to Draco.

“You could have been.” Draco said. “You absolutely could have been. And then where the _fuck_ would we all be?!”

“I had to!” Harry protested, and Draco exhaled angrily.

“And HARRY!” Hermione screeched, voice strained and breaking, whirling around to face him. Ron looked viable to pass out. “HOW THE _HELL_ COULD YOU LET HIM LEAVE?! AFTER THE LAST TIME?!”

Harry’s blood ran cold as he digested her meaning. How the _fuck_ did he not think of that?

“We didn’t…we thought we’d be back before you even woke up,” he defended himself, but the argument was weak and everyone knew it.

The storm in her eyes flashed. “You drove Draco and I _sick_ with worry. We had no _fucking_ idea what happened to you, you didn’t tell us _anything_ —“

“Oh, so glad he was there too,” Ron mumbled, quite audibly, and Harry resisted the urge to literally Vanish him on the spot.

Hermione went completely still, as if someone had petrified her. She turned slowly back around, her incredulous and slightly hysterical eyes again on Ron, who looked terrified but unapologetic.

“ _What_?” she asked, her voice dripping with poison.

“Ron, fucking hell, mate,” Harry tried, but he was ignored.

Ron met Hermione’s stare relatively steadily. “How can you accuse me and Harry of lying and sneaking around when you and _Malfoy_ seem so close—“

“Are you saying what I _think_ you’re saying?” Hermione interrupted, her voice even deadlier.

“Well, isn’t it true?” Ron demanded, and Hermione let out a shriek of laughter.

“You are—how can you—after the last time this happened—Harry!” she said suddenly, facing him once more.

Harry’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “What?” he said, faking ignorance.

Hermione stared at him for a second, disbelieving, before turning to Draco. “And _you_?”

Draco stared back, seemingly frozen, his anger at Harry momentarily forgotten.

“Harry, what’s going on?” Ron asked, and that seemed to evoke some anger from Hermione again.

“Fine!” she said, spinning back around. “Do you want to know what’s been going _on_?”

“Yeah, I do!” Ron replied, his voice rising in volume.

“ _Hermione_ ,” Harry whispered desperately, as his mind caught up to what was happening. She wouldn’t dare…would she?

She ignored him completely.

“Draco has not been shagging me,” she told him factually, her voice steely. “He _has_ , however, been shagging Harry for…oh, about a month now, right?”

Harry’s heart stopped beating as Ron immediately swung around to face him, uncomprehending.

For the first time in his life, time stood still for him.

He stared, detached, at Ron’s face, which was steadily morphing from an expression of bewilderment to an expression of shock with each passing millisecond that Harry wasn’t outright denying anything.

 _You could deny it,_ he thought, but dismissed that immediately. Ron would believe Hermione over him any day. Anyone would. _You could…run._

That was the appealing option, and he could see out of the corner of his eye Draco tensing to do just that.

But he couldn’t do that either, mainly because while it might buy them some time, they’d ultimately be in the same place by the time they stopped.

 _You could come clean_.

How was that his last option?

He sighed, closing his eyes.

When he opened them again, he saw Ron still staring at him, his expression still exactly the same, frozen somewhere in between disbelief, confusion and horror.

He realized abruptly that he had nothing to say, no words to try and placate him—so he merely raised a hand, shrugging slightly.

“Go ahead,” he said simply, his mouth pressed into a grim smile.

Draco snorted.

“I’m going to kill you,” Ron hissed suddenly, his attention snapping like a rubber band from Harry to Draco.

Draco’s eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, and he even edged centimeters closer to Harry.

“Ron, don’t kill him,” Harry said tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face. Why did exhaustion always have to hit him so suddenly? “Can’t we go inside? I can barely see anything, it’s still dark.”

Without a reply of any sort, Harry turned around and started walking back the house, Draco immediately appearing at his side.

“Are they coming?” Harry muttered to Draco, not wanting to look back over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Draco replied, checking quickly. “Oh—and I’m still _completely furious_ with you.”

Harry sighed. “Fantastic.”

 

Harry found he didn’t much like it when everyone in the room was extremely angry with him. The truth was that everyone in the room was at some sort of fault and the target of hostility was shifting often.

Hermione, apparently, was on the more innocent side of things—she seemed to regret her reveal but ultimately stood by it, occasionally looking challengingly at Harry or Draco.

Ron, though, was obviously leading the current discussion. His mouth was opening and closing like a fish, as he looked from person to person, trying to think of a way to start.

“This is exactly why I thought we should hide it,” Draco finally muttered to Hermione, who sighed.

“Are you _fucking insane_?” Ron asked, as if the question had been forced from his mouth.

Draco looked at him, surprised. “Um.”

“Is this what’s it’s all been about, then?” Ron went on, his mouth in a hard line and his eyes murderous. “Rescuing Harry—helping us, being nice to his friends—all to _shag him_?”

“Of course not!” Harry burst out, feeling as if the entire situation would soon spiral out of control.

“Malfoy?” Ron pressed, raising his eyebrows.

Draco’s jaw tensed. “No,” he replied firmly.

“How could you go along with this?” Ron whined, turning to Harry abruptly.

“I actually started it,” Harry confessed stupidly, and then bit his tongue. Because that’s what he does, he makes situations _better_.

“That’s true, you did kiss me first,” Draco recalled unhelpfully.

Ron shuddered. “He’s tricked you. Coerced you. How can you not…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “This is sick.”

“I didn’t know you were so conservative, Weasley,” Draco drawled, his words obviously not serious but the flash of anger in his eyes all too true.

Ron glared at him. “That’s not what it is at all, Malfoy. Of course it isn’t.”

“Just me, then?” Draco clarified, and Ron let out a breath of incredulous laughter.

“Yes! Obviously!”

“But Ron,” Hermione interjected desperately, “don’t you see that this is _good_?”

“ _Good?_ ” Ron repeated. He looked at her, astounded. “Malfoy’s years of obsession with Harry— _years_ —it’s finally culminated, in the middle of war, right after he defects—and none of that is _suspicious_? You don’t think _anything_ of that?”

“Do you think Draco’s, like, controlling me with his dick?” Harry suggested wildly, throwing his hands up in the air. Draco visibly held in laughter. Ron looked aghast.

“I _don’t_ think anything of it,” Hermione answered Ron’s question after a pointed glare at Harry. “It makes _perfect_ sense.”

“ _How?!_ ” Ron cried.

“You said it yourself, Ron—remember? You said Draco needs a purpose to fight. This _is_ his purpose!” Hermione tried, and Ron just stared at her.

“I have _always_ loved Harry,” Draco said, and Ron’s head whipped around to him, mouth falling open. Harry flushed almost inappropriately, the words familiar but still a shock in his system nonetheless. “In the back of my mind. Whenever I was starting to question things. When I’ve hated everything, I’ve loved him.”

“You _hated_ him,” Ron reminded him. “Tormented him!”

“I hated what he stood for in my life,” Draco corrected. “I hated him for making me question everything. For fucking my life up. For making me want to fight for myself and for everyone else like he does. And I…handled that…indelicately.”

“And what the fuck’s changed?” Ron challenged.

“Having to identify you at h—in Malfoy Manor,” Draco answered readily. “That was it. That was when I had to choose—I either had to let him go entirely or surrender to everything Harry Potter brings with him.” Draco smiled wryly. “The fight for justice, the drive to protect the ones you love.”

Harry inhaled deeply, remembering to breathe. Wasn’t that supposed to be an involuntary instinct or something?

“You love him,” Ron summarized, and Harry breathed out in relief, noting the absolute lack of venom from Ron’s voice. “That’s why you…that’s why you’re doing this.”

“It was a fairly large catalyst, yes,” Draco answered quietly, looking more and more uncomfortable. “Are we done?”

Ron still looked fairly shell-shocked and Hermione, Harry could tell, looked like she was ready to yell at someone again.

But Harry didn’t care. His eyes were on Draco now, and the waves of vulnerable emotion he could almost hear crashing around him.

“Can all other shit talking take place in the morning, please?” Harry said, barely hearing his own voice.

Draco looked at him, some of his tension easing with a smile. “Harry has to move back into my room anyway.”

Ron grimaced. “Merlin, give a bloke a minute to adjust!”

“Get used to it,” Draco replied lazily, standing up and stretching. Harry got to his feet too, casting a parting glance at Ron (still clearly in a semi-permanent state of shock) and Hermione (looking exhausted but relieved) before all but running from the room, right behind Draco.

 

“We made it out of there alive,” Draco remarked, shocked, as he and Harry hurried down the hallway.

“Well spotted,” Harry replied, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“Unless Ron’s faking and he’s going to smother me with a pillow in two hours,” Draco reasoned.

“Two hours?” Harry frowned. “I don’t know if I’ll be done with you in two hours.”

Draco stopped, firmly ignoring the burst of sudden desire he could feel in his abdomen. “You seriously think you’re getting laid tonight?”

Harry stopped too, looking at Draco curiously. “Yes,” he replied simply.

“I think you’re forgetting I’m still very angry with you,” Draco said, folding his arms.

Harry pouted, and Draco found that he was having trouble summoning enough energy to do anything other than smile in response.

“Aha!” Harry grinned back triumphantly.

They decided to hold off on moving Harry’s lone sack of possessions back to Draco’s room until morning—namely, because it was all the way down the hall and not very conducive to where Harry wanted to be.

Consequently, they both fell down on Draco’s bed and instantly curled up around one another.

“You can’t do stupid things anymore.” Draco tells him, pressing his lips to the top of Harry’s head.

“Aren’t we breaking into Gringotts in…a day?” came his muffled reply, and Draco had to laugh a bit.

“Okay. Don’t do stupid things anymore without me.” He amended his earlier statement, absently running his hand along Harry’s forearm.

“What if you don’t let me?”

“Then _don’t do them_ , arsehole.”

“Draco,” Harry sighed, and it wasn’t a protest. It wasn’t a refusal, it wasn’t an acceptance. It was just his name—breathed quietly and reverently.

Draco stopped talking, curling the arm he had draped loosely around Harry into both of them, hugging Harry tighter.

“You scared me.” Draco said. It was all he really needed to say: Harry shifted and raised himself to look into Draco’s face, finding his eyes easily even in the very limited light they had.

“I’m sorry.”

Draco exhaled and reached a hand up to cup Harry’s face, sitting up so he could press a slow kiss to Harry’s lips, reveling in the idea that they no longer had to rush this, no longer had to hide it.

Harry moved almost leisurely so that he was eventually pressed against the entirety of Draco’s body, keeping the kiss languid and sensual.

“Mmm,” Draco hummed appreciatively, dropping his hands to skim down Harry’s back and lifting his shirt slightly up, just enough so Draco could splay his fingers across the expanse of Harry’s skin, making the boy on top of him shiver slightly.

“If Ron does come in here with a pillow, I promise to defend you,” Harry vowed, in between kissing Draco’s now slick lips and his forehead, nose and cheeks—light and easy little touches that made Draco’s chest tighten and ache.

“Malfoys don’t need defending,” he replied, as haughtily as he could manage in his current position.

“Perhaps I should leave, then,” Harry suggested, his voice a low rumble in his throat.

“You think I have you here as a precaution?” Draco asked, shaking his head as if scandalized. “You underestimate me, Potter.”

Harry laughed, the sound tucked away against his neck, and Draco held him closer, riding the wave of fierce affection he felt until his eyes hurt to stay open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that then...  
> Tell me what you think, honestly. And if it makes sense. I worry that these complicated emotional thought processes aren't making sense...
> 
> SO just leave me a comment, as always, I appreciate all of them!  
> Until next time!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready to rob a bank?

The last twenty-four hours, the last day before the break-in, was the most strained ever between the five of them.

Hermione would barely talk to any of them, only to reiterate directions and plans. She followed Griphook around all day, much to his annoyance, desperately trying to wring out any additional details or words of advice.

Harry tried not to think about it, just moved out of Hermione’s way when he needed to and spoke with both Ron and Draco in absent conversations.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly, despite the general uneasiness.

There was one moment, however, that Harry strongly wished he could take back: it had happened right before lunch, as Draco and Harry sat aimlessly in their bedroom, the Sword of Gryffindor propped up right beside the bed. They had decided to bring it with them, in case they had to destroy the Horcrux then and there. Harry was sitting right beside it, watching the sun glint of its blade, when Griphook had unexpectedly opened the door.

On instinct, Harry’s fingers had immediately curled around the hilt, and Griphook’s beady eyes had zeroed in on the movement. Griphook met his gaze coldly as Harry slowly let go of the sword and Draco had cleared his throat, saying something about double-checking things as Harry watched Griphook for any sense of accusation. It went by without comment, but Harry could tell his reflexive motion would not be forgotten.

Ron and Draco seemed to be the most affected, something Harry supposed made a fair amount of sense. After all, they were the ones that had grown up hearing the legends of Gringotts’s impenetrability, and the horror stories of those who had tried to challenge it.

And now, _they_ had become those thieves so detached from any expectation that any of them had ever held from themselves. It was unsettling, to say the least.

But the day passed, far too quickly and too slowly, and it was now time, by the light of the early morning, to make the final preparations.

Ron’s Glamour was up first: his magic would undoubtedly hold the longest, and since Polyjuice ran on an hourly schedule, Draco and Hermione would not transform until the last second in order to buy them as much time as possible before they would have to discreetly take another swallow from the flasks now affixed somewhere in their clothing.

“Remember—I don’t like the beard too long—“ Ron was saying as Hermione led him into her bedroom, where she had Conjured a mirror to stand against a wall.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t about looking handsome…”

Harry laughed and shook his head as the door shut behind them, turning back to Draco, who was standing silently next to him in the hallway.

His laughter died as he saw Draco holding the glass vial he had gotten from Clearwater. He was holding it at eye-level but far from his face, as if scared to contaminate himself with it. His expression was one of wary distaste, inspecting the contents of the vial with pursed lips and dread in his eyes.

“Something wrong?” Harry asked weakly, and Draco blinked and tore his gaze away from the potion.

“No,” Draco sighed, shaking his head and pocketing the vial. “Not really.”

“Okay,” Harry replied. “Well.”

He moved next to Draco and wrapped one arm around his waist, pulling the boy closer to him.

“Just looking like him doesn’t mean you _are_ him,” Harry said hesitantly, and Draco grimaced.

“I know,” he replied quickly, shaking his head again before relaxing against Harry. “I know…”

Harry was about to say something else, but Hermione’s bedroom door burst open unexpectedly and Ron (or, rather, a hairy and foreign stranger) stepped confidently out, stopping short at the sight of Harry and Draco practically hugging in front of him.

Harry had a quick and guilty urge to remove his arm, but he tightened it instead, silently reassuring Draco.

“Oh,” Ron said thickly. “Right…um…h—how do I look?”

Harry reluctantly withdrew from Draco to inspect Ron closer.

“You couldn’t recognize him, right?” Hermione asked anxiously, appearing at Ron’s side.

“Well, _I_ could,” Harry answered, scanning his eyes over Ron’s transformed face. “But that’s because I know it’s him, and I’ve lived with him for seven years.”

“I don’t think I’d be able to,” Draco put in helpfully, stepping up as well. “The hair is a completely different texture _and_ color—that’s really quite impressive, Hermione—the freckles are gone, the nose is changed, and the eyes are…did you change the bone structure around the eyes?”

Hermione flushed and nodded. “I know it can be dangerous, but I wanted to be convincing.”

“It is convincing,” Harry reassured her, and she smiled. “Could fool anyone.”

“Good,” Ron replied, nodding satisfactorily. “Do I get to do my accent now?”

“I suppose you better get in the habit,” Hermione answered. “But remember—you don’t speak unless spoken to, over-doing it could rouse suspicion.”

“I know, I know,” Ron waved her concern off.

“I want to hear this accent,” Draco said, sounding faintly amused. Harry looked at him warningly.

Ron didn’t seem to notice, just cleared his throat and shook his long auburn hair out of his face.

“My name,” Ron announced dramatically, his voice dark and heavy, “is Dragomir Despard.”

Draco bit his lip to contain the laughter, but Hermione had to physically block her mouth with her hand to hold it in.

Harry, the best out of all of them at keeping a straight face, nodded seriously. “Alright, good choice. Now…er, just remember what Hermione said about not speaking too much. Um. If at all.”

Ron rolled his eyes and Draco lost it first, bursting into laughter about a second before Hermione.

“It’s foreign!” Ron defended, crossing his arms. “It doesn’t sound like me!”

“It doesn't sound like anyone, mate,” Harry told him grimly, while Draco and Hermione laughed harder.

“Hermione!” Ron whined, and Hermione sobered immediately, fighting back her laughter.

“I’m sorry, Ron, it’s fine, it really is, it just—the way you said it was a bit dramatic. And we’re not used to it.”

“It’s fine?” Ron asked earnestly, and Hermione nodded.

“Of course it’s fine. Just be careful.”

Ron nodded, and Hermione squeezed his arm in encouragement.

Draco was still giggling, coming to rest his head on Harry’s shoulder to hide it from Ron.

“Shh,” Harry shushed him discreetly, twisting his mouth so he wouldn’t smile.

“Sorry,” Draco gasped in between giggles, and Harry stepped on his foot to try and silence him.

Draco gave a yelp of pain and swatted Harry on the nose.

“Ow!” Harry exclaimed, jumping back. “Did you just _swat_ me?”

“You stepped on my foot!”

“You swatted me!”

“Oh, calm down, Potter.”

“Like a _cat_!”

Ron and Hermione were laughing now, Hermione shaking her head as well.

“And here I thought your couple fights would be just shy of catastrophic,” she said. “I was wrong, apparently.”

They were all still laughing freely as Griphook suddenly appeared, silencing everyone as he cleared his throat.

“I’m glad to see such high spirits on a day of such thievery,” he said coldly, and any trace of merriment was wiped from the faces of all.

“We’re sorry,” Hermione apologized. “The stress…it has all of our hormones out of balance.”

The other three nodded fervently, and Griphook looked barely satisfied.

“I do believe it is time for Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger to take their respective potions?” he said, and Draco exhaled shakily. Harry grabbed his hand and squeezed it, marveling at the now instinctive urge to do so.

Ron moved to stand beside Harry as Draco followed Hermione into her bedroom, both of them looking distinctly unsettled.

“You think we’ll pull this one off, too?” Ron muttered to Harry, his eyes on the door.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Harry replied, casing Ron to snort.

“You have the Cloak ready, Mr. Potter?” Griphook asked, and Harry turned away from Ron to nod.

“It’s just right there,” Harry added, pointing to a slightly translucent heap of fabric on the floor beside him.

“On the floor?” Griphook questioned distastefully, and Harry exhaled sharply, willing himself not to lose his temper.

“It’s fine, it’s just—“

The door opened again, and the shock of the sight before him wiped any argument with Griphook from his mind.

There, in the doorway, with an expression of disgust clear on both of their faces, were Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange, looking for all the world as if they had just stepped out of a meeting with Voldemort.

Harry had to take a deep breath and force himself to remember that they were not, in fact, Death Eaters sworn to kill him, but Draco and Hermione, two people he loved and _didn’t_ want dead.

“Damn,” Ron breathed beside him, sounding not at all pleased.

“She tasted _absolutely_ horrid,” Hermione said, and it was another shock to Harry’s system to hear Bellatrix’s voice, heady and low, on top of the slight inflection of Hermione’s tone that Harry could just barely pick up on. “Worse than Gurdyroots.”

She walked awkwardly over to Ron, standing closer to him than perhaps what he thought was comfortable.

“Did…did you Transfigure the clothes?” Ron asked politely, gesturing to Hermione’s black and rather gothic attire.

“As best I could from memory,” Hermione responded, shaking her head again as another wild curl fell in front of her eyes. “Honestly, and I thought _my_ hair was bad…”

“It’s just the way she insists on wearing it,” Draco commented, Lucius’s voice much lower and colder than his own. He moved to stand beside Harry, who found himself quietly but desperately searching for any trace of Draco in his father’s face.

“Convincing, right?” Draco asked him dully, smiling grimly.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, tearing his sight away from Lucius’s eyes. It was strange, but seeing the steely eyes show Draco’s raw emotions was only making Harry feel more anxious—it was if Draco was trapped inside some evil entity—

Harry shook himself from his thoughts. He was _fine_. It was just a potion. He really should be focusing on the indomitable fortress they were about to rob.

“You have your purse?” he asked Hermione, not looking at her.

“Yes,” he heard her reply, “It’s in my…well. I have it.”

Ron spluttered somewhere behind them while Draco barked a laugh.

“Always did love Auntie Bella,” he murmured jokingly to Harry, who shuddered at Lucius’s voice.

“Shall we go, then?” Griphook asked them, and they fell silent.

Looking around at each other, they each tried to quietly gather some semblance of strength or courage from the all but strangers staring back at them. As a result, Harry found himself fixed with the eyes of a pureblood foreign ambassador, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Lucius Malfoy, all looking at him almost pleadingly.

“We’ll be alright,” he assured the group, trying his hardest for a moment to visualize his friends in front of him.

And for a moment, it worked.

Bellatrix’s eyes seemed to brighten and warm, her hair lightening and softening. Dragomir’s gaze was not quite so brooding, and the middle age seemed to slip away from him to give way to a younger soul. Harry could recognize affection and love in Lucius’s eyes that he was so used to from Draco, and he smiled more encouragingly at all of them.

Griphook cleared his throat, and just like that, the moment was shattered. They all turned to him, regaining their personas, and Harry went to retrieve the Cloak.

Griphook nodded curtly at all of them and began to walk down the hall, the rest of them following.

 

By now, Draco had to admit, they were just stalling.

They had double-checked that they did, in fact, have everything three separate times since they’d been outside, and Griphook was beginning to get visibly irritated.

He watched as Hermione tried to compose herself into Bellatrix, Draco having given her pointers the day before. She straightened her posture and walked in the almost impractical boots with an attempt at an aristocratic grace, and Draco had to admire her determination.

She kept her expression cold and slightly manic, as per her past impressions of the woman. Draco watched her now as she stared at Bellatrix’s wand, watching it almost fearfully.

He then looked at Harry, who was attempting to illustrate to Griphook how to sit on his back, the position they would have to hold until they could take off the Invisibility Cloak.

Ron was off the side, muttering to himself, no doubt practicing his accent.

 _If you fuck this up because of that accent, Weasley, I’m going to kill you_ , Draco thought tiredly as he moved over to help Harry and Griphook.

“Thanks,” Harry huffed in response, handing Draco the Cloak as Griphook climbed indelicately onto Harry’s back.

“Comfortable?” Harry asked Griphook, and only Draco detected the note of sarcasm in Harry’s question.

“It will suffice,” the goblin answered, and Harry rolled his eyes, apparently confident in the knowledge that Griphook wouldn’t notice.

Draco smirked and threw the Cloak over them both, making sure all parts were completely covered.

“Perfect,” Bellatrix’s voice sounded in his ear unexpectedly and he nearly jumped out of his skin. “I can’t see a thing.”

He forced a smile. “I think that should do it, then. Are we ready?”

Hermione’s satisfied smile disappeared and she nodded somberly. “I am. Ron?”

Ron nodded as well, coming to stand closer to Draco, Hermione, and an invisible Harry and Griphook.

“Onwards,” Draco drawled, forcing himself into the mindset of his father.

 

They decided to Apparate to the same spot that Draco and Harry had originally arrived at, hoping beyond hope that they wouldn’t be too noticed.

It was a cloudy morning in London. _Definitely in keeping with the theme of the day_ , Draco thought, keeping his head held high as he fell into step behind Bellatrix, Ron as ‘Dragomir’ trailing somewhat behind him.

Harry, Draco assumed, was right next to his friend, but any footsteps he might could hear were drowned out by the impressive and intimidating clack of Bellatrix’s shoes, something Draco admitted would ultimately be a good thing.

 _No one dares to question a woman in loud shoes_ , his mother had once told him, as her and his father readied themselves for a Ministry ball. _Especially if she walks confidently in them_.

 _Thanks, ma,_ he thought wryly, and then focused his attention back on the task at hand. He couldn’t afford any nervous distractions.

The Leaky Cauldron was almost empty, much to their luck. Tom looked up from the counter and stilled upon the sight of who had entered, but quickly bowed his head in a stiff and contempt greeting.

“Madame Lestrange,” he muttered. “Master Malfoy.”

Draco barely nodded, just as his father would have done, and made to continue, but froze upon hearing Hermione speak.

“Good morning,” she said, and Tom’s head yanked back up again, startled.

“Quite,” Draco said, trying to cover as he increased the group’s pace.

He bent down to whisper in Hermione’s ear just as they were out of sight. “ _Way_ too polite. Be a stone-cold bitch, will you?”

“Alright, alright,” she whispered back, haughtily shaking Bellatrix’s hair out of her face.

She drew Bellatrix’s wand and tapped the bricks in front of them, standing back as the archway to Diagon Alley formed.

They stepped through, glancing around at the few people populating the streets. Draco hadn’t expected much change from the last time he and Harry were there, but one change soon became fairly evident, stopping them all in their tracks.

Harry’s face, scaled and blown up on posters, glared down at them from boarded-up shop windows, lamp posts, and official Ministry banners hung from roofs. Captioned under it were the words ‘Undesirable No. 1’.

“Fuck,” Draco breathed, not allowing himself to glance back at an invisible Harry, but felt a vicarious anger and fear pierce through him all the same. “Come on, we’ve got to keep moving.”

“That’s not good,” Hermione whispered, even as she resumed her stride, and Draco shook his head.

“No, it’s not.”

They couldn’t have walked more than twenty steps when they heard a voice call out in greeting that made Draco’s blood run cold.

“Why, Madame Lestrange! And Malfoy!”

The three visible members of their party turned to see Travers, one of the more intellectually ruthless Death Eaters, walking towards them.

Hermione obviously didn’t recognize him, however, because her cold and demanding “and what do _you_ want”, while magnificently in character, was never how she would address him.

Travers stopped short, looking highly affronted.

“I merely sought to greet you,” Travers said coldly, straightening up. “but if my presence is not welcome…”

“Of course not,” Draco cut in smoothly, inclining his head towards the man, intending to try and flatter him. “It’s been...ah…a difficult morning.”

“That it has,” Hermione suddenly agreed, shaking her head. “This vile crawling on the streets—trying to harass me, offend _me_! Just the sight of them—absolutely ruins one’s day.”

Draco only barely refrained from raising his eyebrows in surprise. Ron coughed behind them, but Travers paid him no mind.

“Quite,” Travers replied, nodding his sympathy. “I had just the same problem, the other day…but I must confess, I am surprised to see both you and Lucius out and about like this.”

“Oh?” Hermione replied. “Why would that be?”

“Well,” Travers began delicately, “I had _heard_ that the inhabitants of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house, after the… _ahem_ , the escape.”

Draco inhaled, his panic fighting with an inappropriate surge of pride at the mention of what had happened. His panic won out in the end, and he fought to keep his composure.

_Fuck. Is that true? Fuck._

He was trying wildly to think of a cover, but then—

“The Dark Lord forgives those who have served him most faithfully in the past,” Hermione replied coolly, and Draco almost applauded her. “Perhaps your credit is not as good with him as mine is, Travers.”

Travers visibly swallowed. “But whose wand are you using? I heard that your own was—“

“I have my wand here,” Hermione cut in, her voice turning more and more to ice with each word. “I don’t know what rumors you have been listening to, Travers, but you seem sadly misinformed.”

Travers just stared at her, obviously trying to keep his composure. He looked offended, but blessedly, less suspicious.

“I should introduce you to our friend,” Draco said, hoping to leave Travers on amicable ground. He turned back to Ron and swept an arm out to indicate him. Ron dutifully stepped forward. “His name is Dragomir Despard. He does not speak much English, but he is very interested in the Dark Lord’s plans for the Wizarding World. He has traveled from Transylvania to hear what we have to say.”

“Indeed?” asked Travers, sounding politely interested. “How do you do, Dragomir?”

“’Ow you?” said Ron, holding out his hand. Travers did not seem remotely fazed by the accent as he shook Ron’s hand, and both him and Hermione (and probably Harry too—god, Draco hated not being able to see him) breathed a sigh of relief.

“Any chance you all might be visiting Gringotts?” Travers asked, and Draco, simply put, panicked.

“Are you?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Travers looked at him, confused. “Yes…”

Draco exhaled, struck with a sudden idea. It was bold, and risky, but if it worked…

He looked over his shoulder at the general spot of where he thought Harry could be, hoping beyond hope Harry could understand him.

“Any chance we could change your _mind_?” Draco asked pointedly, feeling somewhat foolish, though the question was not directed to Travers.

“Lucius,” Hermione warned, looking at him like he had lost his mind. “Surely you must be—“

“Actually,” Travers interrupted her, looking suddenly dazed. “Did I say…what did I say? My mother is expecting me elsewhere…it was nice talking…good day!”

And he walked off.

Hermione blinked several times before Draco motioned for them all to keep moving.

“I just Imperiused him,” came Harry’s slightly astounded voice in his ear. “I’ve never done that before.”

Draco bit back a smile. “I love you for it,” he whispered back, not allowing his expression to change.

“For _that_? And honestly, that’s not at all as heartwarming when it comes from your father.”

“I know,” Draco answered dryly, before Hermione shot them both a warning look. He sped up to walk with her again.

Finally, they turned a corner and arrived at the bottom of the stairs that led up to their target—the slightly slanted but still imposing marble building that read GRINGOTTS at the top.

They allowed themselves a momentary pause before climbing them, noting warily the change in security that Griphook had told them about.

Two wizards flanked either side of the entrance, staring at them as they ascended, though Draco could easily detect the intimidation in both their faces. They held long golden rods that Draco knew were called Probity Probes: magical detection devices.

There was no way that any of their visible party could Confund them or enchant them discreetly, especially without the mastery of wandless or nonverbal magic. Draco breathed in and wondered if it was possible to get some sort of telepathic connection with Harry.

Just in time, he heard a faintly whispered “ _Confundo! Confundo!_ ” from somewhere on his left.

 _Thank you, Harry,_ Draco said to himself, smirking slightly.

They reached the top and barely glanced at the guards. Hermione acted like she was about to go through un-accosted when one guard stopped her.

“One moment, madam,” he said gruffly, raising the Probe.

“But you’ve just done that!” she protested, and he blinked down at her, and then at his Probe.

“Yeah, you’ve just checked them, Marius,” said his partner, looked dazed but sure.

Hermione swept forward without any other comment, leaving the rest of them to haughtily follow her.

Draco knew the entrance hall of Gringotts well. Up until his eleventh birthday, he was required to wait for his father with a goblin in the hall, since he was not old enough to accompany his father down to their vault.

He would still make Draco come with him, however, if for no other reason than to impress upon his son the importance of wealth and status in their society. Draco always fervently believed him.

Now he faced the long marble hall with a sense of resentment: even though he knew it was not the bank’s fault for his biased upbringing, he could not help but feel a touch of victory along with his guilt.

He looked to his right where Hermione was strutting confidently down the hall. For all her supposed superior air, he could see her eyes darting back and forth down the row of goblins, most of which paid them no mind, but some stared shamelessly.

He cleared his throat and kept his eyes forward as he let Hermione approach an old goblin at the end of the row, who was examining a gold coin through a thick pair of spectacles.

He didn’t seem to notice her as she stepped up to the podium, and it was only when she cleared her throat threateningly that the goblin jumped and looked up at her, his eyes immediately going wide.

“Madame Lestrange!” he exclaimed, quickly tossing the coin aside. “Dear me! Apologies…how—how may I help you today?”

Draco tried not to show the confusion on his face as worry gathered in his gut. Hermione looked appeased—she assumed the goblin’s stammering was due to her impressive standing, but Draco knew that goblins were rarely fazed by the prestige of wizards. Something about Hermione had upset the goblin’s composure—and that couldn’t be good.

“I wish to enter my vault,” Hermione replied, her voice ringing out down the quiet hall.

The goblin hesitated, and Draco snuck a glance down the hall. It seemed almost all of the other goblins in the long row had ceased in their work to watch this exchange.

 _Oh no_.

“You have…identification?” asked the goblin.

Draco swallowed. His father had never been asked for identification. Extra security measures aside, they must have been warned. They _knew_.

He just barely looked over his shoulder, trying to subtly indicate to Harry and Griphook that something was wrong.

“Identification?” Hermione repeated, her contemptuous voice blank. “I—I have never been asked for identification before!”

The goblin looked apologetic and unsure, but he held out a slightly shaking hand anyway. “Your wand will do, madam.”

 _Her wand._ They knew it had been stolen.

Acting on instinct, Draco stepped in front of Hermione, feigning indignation.

“This is ridiculous,” he snarled. “Let us pass this instant! The Dark Lord does not wait for _identification_.”

“We are not asking the Dark Lord for identification, Mr. Malfoy,” the goblin replied. “We are asking Madame Lestrange.”

Hermione harrumphed and shook Bellatrix’s hair once more. Draco cast another furtive glance over his shoulder as Hermione held out her wand.

The goblin took it and examined it closely, a look on surprise on his face. “Ah,” he exclaimed, “I see you have had a new wand made, Madame Lestrange!”

Hermione blinked. “No—“

“Yes,” Draco cut in, enormously relieved Harry had seemed to get the hint. He wondered what spell was on him—Confundo or the Imperius Curse? “The Dark Lord rewards his most faithful servants.”

“As I have always said,” Hermione replied, catching on. “Are we allowed to proceed _now_?”

The old goblin nodded and clapped once, a younger goblin immediately appearing at his side.

“I shall need the Clankers,” he said, and the younger goblin nodded and departed, retuning a moment later with a leather bag that made a metallic clanking sound when it was moved. The tool was aptly named.

The old goblin nodded in satisfaction. “Good! If you will follow me, Madame Lestrange, and Mister Malfoy, I shall take you to the vault.”

He walked towards them, drawing even more attention to them as the Clankers jangled at his hip.

“Wait—Bogrod! If this is regarding the Lestranges’ vault—“ a goblin at the end of the hall piped up, and Draco froze.

But Bogrod waved him off. “No need…this is a special case…very old family…”

And he led them through the end of the hall, through a door and into a dark stone passageway.

The door shut behind them and Draco breathed a sigh of relief, unsure of what they should do.

He turned around and jumped as Harry suddenly appeared, Griphook hopping off of him and going immediately to the goblin.

“Is he Imperiused?” Hermione whispered, pointing to Bogrod.

“Yes,” Harry replied, “but I don’t think we’re in the clear yet.”

“They definitely suspect us,” Draco agreed. “We caught the attention of many.”

“So why aren’t they attacking us?” Ron asked, looking nervously towards the heavy door that separated them from the main hall.

“They don’t have enough information yet,” Draco replied.

“They want to have the upper hand at all times,” Griphook added. “They won’t try and apprehend you outright—usually, they’ll either let Gringott’s defenses do their work for them or they’ll try and trap you.”

“Lovely,” Ron replied dryly. “So do we…leave? Get out now, while we still can?”

“ _If_ we can,” Hermione replied anxiously.

“I say we go on,” Harry said. “We’ve gotten this far—“

“—Which isn’t very far,” Griphook interjected, but Harry ignored him.

“—and this is the only chance we’ll get. There’s no way to…duplicate this.”

“Seconded,” Draco responded, smiling briefly at Harry to try and quell his own uneasiness.

“We need to move,” Griphook said, moving towards the tracks and the cart that would take them down into the vaults. “Are we all in agreement?”

They all nodded resolutely.

“Good. We need Bogrod to control the cart. Everyone—get in! Quickly!” Griphook instructed, and they all obliged as fast as they could.

“I think he needs another _Imperius_ ,” Hermione observed worriedly. Draco sighed.

“I’ll do it,” he offered, drawing his wand.

“I’m perfectly able to—“ Harry began to protest, but Draco cut him off quickly.

“Harry, that’s not even your wand. On the grounds of how magic works alone, I’m better equipped to deal with this than you.” He almost snapped this, casting the curse quickly and effectively.

Harry blinked, and Draco realized with a slightly cold feeling that he hadn’t really snapped at Harry like that—not seriously, not since they’d been together—and was suddenly terrified as to how Harry would react.

But just before the cart jerked away, yanking them off into the twisting tunnels and hallways of Gringotts, Draco saw Harry smile.

 

The ride was twisting, terrifying and exhilarating, but at least it was stable. Harry held on to the Cloak for dear life, scared it was liable to fly from his fingers.

They descended further into the darkness, the whirring of their cart really the only sound that echoed around the stone underground. They all strained to hear any noises of shouting, of attacking, but it seemed that either the goblins were no longer suspicious, or they were lying low. Harry wasn’t exactly sure which to expect.

As if in answer, the cart cut sharply left all of a sudden, as if departing from a normal route. Harry barely had time to register the change before Hermione shrieked as they all saw what lay ahead: a raging waterfall, pouring insistently over the tracks. Harry looked frantically around to see if there was another track he could try and spell the cart onto: but not only would that be inordinately dangerous, it seemed this track was the only one in sight.

“No!” Griphook snarled, apparently also realizing there was no way around it, and within seconds their cart plunged through the water.

The water completely soaked Harry—for some reason, he had expected the water to not be so much like…water. It was obviously enchanted, and past the crushing second-long suffocation that they were in the waterfall, it was clear what it had done.

For a split second they all stared around at each other, eyes frozen in fear. Griphook, Bogrod and Harry remained unchanged, just damper than usual, but Ron, Hermione and Draco were again no more than teenagers in costume.

And then, without warning, they were launched from the cart.

Hermione’s scream pierced the air, coupled with Ron’s shout, and Hermione screamed something else, a spell of some sort, as they plummeted. Harry caught sight of the ground and had the absurd urge to yell something like “look out”, but Hermione’s spell took effect and Harry stopped falling. Instead, he seemed to be floating down to the stone ground, and a quick look around him told him everyone else was experiencing the same thing.

His feet touched the ground as he was let down gently, and saw Draco land right in front of him, staggering a bit as he felt gravity return to him.

Seeing him there, returned to _Draco_ and completely unharmed, filled Harry with an almost overwhelming sense of relief. Not caring in that moment if it was an overreaction, or inappropriate, he rushed at him, pulling him into a hug and holding the soaking wet and slightly shivering boy against him.

“You’re okay,” he breathed, and heard Draco laugh shakily as he hugged him back.

“Relatively.”

“ _We’re_ just grand,” came Ron’s slightly irritated voice, and Harry drew back, a bit sheepish.

“We need to _move_ ,” Griphook urged. “That was the Thief’s Downfall. As you have probably guessed, it wipes away all magical enchantments and concealment—they know we are imposters!”

Harry found one hand still clutching the Cloak and he thrust it under his jacket.

“H—Harry Potter—“ Bogrod spoke suddenly, sounding shocked, and they all whirled around to face the wide-eyed old goblin.

“It’s lifted the curse!” Ron said, and Draco automatically lifted his wand, casting the _Imperius_ without hesitation. Harry wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he felt a bit relieved he no longer had to cast any Unforgivables. It didn’t feel right with his magic—like he either wouldn’t be able to effectively or…be much too extreme.

Bogrod’s face was wiped of expression and he went to retrieve the Clankers that had fallen with them.

“Can you hear that?” Hermione’s voice spoke up, higher than normal and sounding scared. They all quieted, trying to hear signs of other people.

Harry heard it first—a lone shout echoing off the walls, followed by a faint and hurried conversation, the words impossible to make out.

“Someone’s coming!” Griphook hissed, and Hermione immediately raised her wand, pointing it at the area above them.

“ _Portego!_ ” she cried, the shield charm flying up to protect them.

“Where even is the vault?” Ron asked, turning urgently to Griphook.

“Not far, fortunately,” came his reply, and the goblin took off at a run. “Follow me! And bring Bogrod!”

Draco pointed his wand at the old goblin and the five of them sprinted behind Griphook as he led the way through the darkness.

“Harry,” Ron called out.

“Yeah?”

“How—how are we getting out?”

Harry shook his head. “We’ll worry about that later.”

“Great,” Ron panted.

They turned a corner and saw the ‘protection’ that Griphook had warned them about—but they found themselves unprepared at the sight of it.

Even crouching as it was, the dragon was gigantic. It was stretched along at least five doors, and its tail curled in front of it, tucking into its body. Its wings were folded firmly against its sides, and it seemed to be cowering before the noise that Bogrod was now making with the Clankers.

“That’s sick,” Hermione whispered, her eyes wide with disgust as she stared up at the dragon and its blind eyes, pale and fleshy scales, underused wings, chains holding it to the ground. She shook her head at the whimpered roars it was making in protest to the noise. “I don’t want to scare it.”

“Neither do I,” Harry assured her, taking a noise-making metal rod from Bogrod even as he said it. “But we’re not going to hurt it. This is what we have to do.”

She sighed and took her instrument, earning a sympathetic glance from Ron, who then moved closer to her.

“You know what to do,” Griphook told them, moving towards the dragon and shaking the Clanker. “It’s the middle door, right where its back leg is. It’ll retreat, just don’t stop making noise.”

They obediently moved forward, making as much noise as possible, letting Bogrod go first so he could open the door to the vault.

“I’m the first in, remember?” Draco said, moving to the front of the group. Harry immediately caught his arm, fighting down the flare of panic. After all, they were all in immediate danger anyway.

Draco, Hermione and Griphook had already worked out the countercurse to what they desperately hoped were Gemino and Flagrante Curses, the spells that Draco had heard Bellatrix talking about in a meeting. He had, therefore, won the honor of going in first and casting the spell so the rest of them wouldn’t suffer the effects of the curses she had placed on her treasure.

“Be careful,” Harry told him firmly. Draco rolled his eyes, smiling at him assuredly before pulling away.

“Like Bonnie and Clyde,” Hermione said wryly, and Harry almost laughed.

“Well, I just don’t—wait, which one of us is Bonnie?!”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“No,” Harry replied hastily, and Ron snorted.

A large groaning sound caught their attention and they turned to look at Bogrod, who had succeeded in opening the door.

Ron and Hermione sucked in a breath almost simultaneously, but all Harry could do was stare.

Gold and silver sparkled off of every inch of the vault: stacked up on ledges, piled on the floor, hiding in corners and hanging from hooks. They sparkled with an evil glint that did not usually come with treasures that Harry had encountered, and he wondered if it was the knowledge of who it all belonged to that perhaps altered his perception of it.

His gaze fell from the treasure to the back of Draco’s head as the boy raised his wand, murmuring something under his breath, his wrist doing something complicated as he did so. The gold and silver pieces flashed once, but remained unchanged.

Draco seemed to think that it worked, for he nodded and put his wand back away.

“Let me test it,” he said, and Harry bit his lip to keep from stopping him.

He reached out a finger and chose the smallest thing he could reach—what looked to Harry like a pair of diamond earrings. They all held their breath as the pad of Draco’s finger brushed against the gem.

Nothing happened.

 _Breathe_ , Harry reminded himself. _Breathe._

Draco pressed his finger to a plate next, and then even dared to close his fist around a handful of gold pieces.

They remained cool and solitary, just as they should.

“I did it,” he said, sounding enormously relieved.

“Good,” Ron said, sounding almost congratulatory, and surprised them all by stepping into the vault to stand beside Draco. “That was brilliant. Thanks.”

Draco looked at him, apparently shocked into silence.

“Thank you?” he repeated blankly, and Ron flushed, nodding.

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Draco responded, blinking, and then shook his head. “You’re welcome. Of course. I only want to help.”

Ron nodded again. “I know.”

Harry could have kissed them both, even though he could just envision Ron’s reaction, and he honestly just narrowly avoided it.

Hermione was beaming at Ron in a way that Harry hadn’t seen her smile in months—

“Hurry up!” Griphook snapped, breaking them all of their moment. “Sentiment has no place in _bank robbery_!”

“Right,” Harry said, clearing his mind. “You all know what we’re looking for. Hufflepuff’s goblet, Draco’s told you what it looks like.”

At his words, their entire party save Bogrod crammed into the vault, spreading out as best they could in the small space.

As soon as they were all in, the door closed somewhat ominously behind them. They all looked at each other, uncertain.

“Bogrod can get us out,” Griphook said. “Start looking!”

“Here’s a goblet,” Hermione offered a minute later, picking up one still somewhat cautiously. Harry turned his wandlight on the object in her hand, but shook his head. It was almost covered in precious jewels and Hufflepuff’s insignia was missing.

“There aren’t any jewels on the goblet,” Draco reminded her.

Hermione nodded, setting it back down. “I just don’t want to leave out any options.”

“We might not have time to be so thorough,” Griphook said, “They already know we’re here!”

They all surveyed the shelves of gold and each of them made a noise as they discovered some sort of goblet—but none of them were Hufflepuff’s.

“How many priceless goblets can exist?!” Ron exclaimed irritably, as he passed over another not-Horcrux goblet.

“Does Gringotts not have bigger vaults?” Hermione sighed. “This would be easier if the treasure wasn't so compact—“

“I am sure they regret not making the vaults more convenient for thieves,” Griphook replied nastily.

“You’re in this too, you know,” Ron reminded him angrily, and Harry held up a hand.

“ _Not_ the time, either of you.” he said, and Ron exhaled.

“Fine.”

Griphook said nothing.

They continued in silence, until Harry turned to a suit of armor. He ran his wand over it slowly, making sure he wasn’t missing something tucked around it. He raised the light above the helmet—

“There! It’s—yeah! That's it!”

Draco, Ron, Hermione and Griphook whirled around, the three other wand lights joining his. Draco moved immediately forward, looking up at the goblet on the highest shelf.

“He’s right—that's it.”

“How do we get up there?” Ron wondered, looking around the vault as if to spot a ladder of some kind.

“I don’t think we’re meant to do it easily,” Harry replied, beginning to look for some sort of purchase in the mountain of gold and silver to place his feet or hands.

“I could levitate you,” Hermione suggested.

“Let me try and climb first,” Harry responded.

He thought that maybe he could try and move things out of the way, try and climb up the shelves that lined the back wall. He pushed the suit of armor to the side, finding it much heavier than expected and used a Weightless Charm on it to help. The others seemed to get the hint, as they were all trying to clear a path for Harry to climb.

Harry grabbed the shelf right above his head and placed his dominant foot on the bottom, pulling himself up. He felt hands on his back steadying him, and turned to see both Draco and Ron trying to support him.

He climbed up this way, with his friends trying to steady and support him, until he reached the middle of the wall. He could see the goblet just beyond his reach, and he dared to let go of the shelf he was holding onto, stretching his arm out as far as it could go.

Without warning, the shelf holding his feet cracked and swayed, causing Harry to desperately cling to the top shelf. His lurch, however, set the shelf to splinter and give way, leaving Harry effectively dangling in the air in a sort of pull-up position.

His arms burned, and he realized rather unhelpfully that despite his extraordinarily active current lifestyle, his arm strength probably wasn’t where it could be.

“Hermione,” he grunted, trying to breathe through the burning, “If you’d—shit!”

The top shelf trembled and broke as well, and he gave a shout of shock as he fell to the ground. He barely had time to hope for no precious weapons in the pile he was about to land in when he stopped, turning in midair to see Draco pointing his wand directly at him and obviously levitating him.

“Thanks,” Harry said feebly.

“You’re an idiot,” Draco replied.

He raised his wand and Harry was lifted higher. He swung about to face the wall and the goblet again, and he reached out.

“Further forward,” he instructed, and Draco complied. He floated towards the wall and Harry finally felt his fingers close around the handle of the goblet.

His whoop of triumph was covered, however, by a sudden roar of the dragon outside, coupled with the sound of clanking.

“Shit,” Draco breathed, lowering Harry as quickly as he could back to the ground. He swung his wand around to face the door. “ _Imperius_!”

“What did you do?” Hermione asked.

“I’m telling Bogrod to not let anyone in,” Draco responded.

Hermione looked faintly scandalized. “What if they have to hurt him?”

Draco didn’t seem to have an answer right away. Looking torn, he finally said carefully: “Sacrifices have to be made sometimes.”

She pursed her lips but didn’t argue, looking to the door. “Do you think the spell can penetrate the door?”

Draco sighed. “I don't know.”

“So what do we do now?” Ron asked, and they all looked at the door, envisioning the hoard of goblins and wizards no doubt on the other side.

“I think I can provide the next step,” came Griphook’s suddenly quiet voice directly behind Harry.

Harry turned around and froze.

Griphook was standing in front of him, beady eyes narrowed and cold as steel. His eyes, however, were not the main point of concern—that award went to the sword currently poking Harry in the stomach.

“What the _fuck_ —“ Ron growled, but Draco hushed him.

Harry was still, staring at Griphook intensely. Griphook stared back, his gaze unrelenting and unwavering. Harry had no doubt he would run the sword straight through him without hesitation.

“What is this.” Draco spoke then, somewhere on Harry’s side, but Harry didn’t turn his head to look. Draco’s voice was collected, almost polite, even—but the frigidity of it could escape no one’s notice.

“This, Mr. Malfoy,” Griphook replied, taking on the same tone, “is what will happen if you do not listen to me.”

And he pressed the tip of the sword just a bit further. Harry gasped and hissed in pain as the sword pierced through skin—

“Okay,” Draco stopped him, a hint of panic detectable. “Okay. We understand. What do you want.”

“The Sword,” Griphook replied immediately.

“You have one,” Harry reminded him dryly.

Griphook’s eyes narrowed further.

 _That was stupid_ , Harry thought.

“You know what sword I am referring to,” the goblin spat. “You are going to give it me, and then you are going to open the door. I’ll be your _hostage_.”

“Griphook, I told you,” Harry reasoned slowly. “We’ll _give_ you the Sword. This isn't necessary—just help us escape, we’ll do it then—“

“No,” Griphook hissed. “I know you were planning to double-cross me, do you think I—“

“We weren’t trying to double-cross you!” Ron protested.

“Liar!” Griphook snarled.

“Do it,” Draco instructed firmly, turning to Hermione.

She hesitated, but withdrew the beaded bag.

“Don’t do it,” Harry said. “Griphook, please. We can’t lose the Sword.”

“It was never yours to lose,” Griphook replied easily.

Shouts sounded outside, muffled by the heavy door.

“Okay!” Hermione gave in, rummaging quickly in the bag and pulling out the Sword of Gryffindor, looking away as she thrust it out.

Griphook’s eyes zeroed in on it right away, and Harry wondered if he dared to move.

Draco, however, saw the opening and whipped his wand out so fast Harry almost completely missed the motion.

He sent a Stinging Jinx at Griphook’s wrist, breaking the goblin’s loosened grip and sending the sword clattering to the ground.

The goblin howled in pain while Harry jumped backwards. Hermione stashed the Sword back away in the beaded bag as Harry Stunned Griphook, who had tried to lunge again.

“Fight our way out?” Ron suggested, as the shouting grew louder and more violent.

“Looks like we’ll have to,” Harry answered grimly, tightening the grip on his wand. Hermione and Ron drew theirs.

“I’m going to tell Bogrod to open the door,” Draco said, walking towards the door. “We should be as close as possible—as _soon_ as it happens, everyone starts firing and sprinting. Got it?”

“And _then_ what?” Hermione asked, her eyes wide as saucers.

Draco looked at her. “Think that dragon can fly?”

Hermione let out a squeak, and Ron exhaled heavily.

 _“Fucking_ hell.”

Harry laughed.

 _This is utter insanity,_ he thought. _How is this always my life?_

“Get as close to the door as possible,” Draco said, and they all pressed against it. “I’ll tell him to open the door discreetly. We need an element of surprise.”

“How surprised can they be?” Ron muttered. Draco ignored him, which Harry thought was probably wise.

Draco pointed his wand at the door and gave the order, looking up at the rest of them as they began to wait.

Harry started counting up.

_1._

He looked at Draco, who seemed to be listening intently at the door, trying to discern what was happening from the shouts.

_2._

He looked at Ron, who had one arm wrapped around Hermione protectively, as if he was preparing to act as her shield.

_3._

His gaze moved to Hermione, who clung to Ron as well, her eyes trained steadily on the door.

_4._

He turned his head to stare at Griphook, frozen in place, still Stunned. The goblin looked at him, his small eyes burning from across the cell.

_5._

The door seemed to vanish, melting away at the touch of Bogrod. It startled all of them, especially Draco, who was closest and leaning against the wood. As soon as they realized what was happening, however, they took off at a run.

Hermione immediately cast a shield charm around them, blocking some hexes that were thrown their way as the other goblins and wizards realized what was happening.

Harry located everyone—Draco, throwing an unidentified spell at a wizard running towards them (safe), Hermione, shooting a remarkably-well armed spell from under Ron’s arm (safe), and Ron, shielding Hermione (safe).

The dragon was pacing, roaring, restless, and their hasty shield charm was weakening under the constant barrage of spells.

“Hurry!” Hermione shrieked, pulling Ron along as she sprinted towards the dragon.

“HOW DO WE GET ON THE BLOODY THING?” Ron yelled, looking around wildly.

Draco pointed his wand at both of them, levitating Hermione first and dumping her on the dragon’s back. She shrieked again and clung to the scales, extending the shield charm and throwing some curses back.

Ron was next; as soon as he landed he wrapped his arms around Hermione and joined her in the defensive attack.

“Draco, how are _you_ —“ Harry started to ask but was lifted off of his feet by Draco’s spell, landing behind Ron rather ungracefully.

If the dragon noticed he now had three people on its back, it didn’t show it. It roared and shook at the noise of the goblins and wizards, turning unexpectedly and almost throwing Harry off. He held on tighter and searched for Draco down below.

He spotted him near the dragon’s tail, trying to get a hold—

 _No way is he doing that_ , Harry decided, pointing his wand firmly at Draco and levitating him up to where they were.

“Idiot,” Harry murmured as Draco slid in behind him.

Draco grinned, his eyes a bit wild from the adrenaline.

“ _Relashio!”_ Hermione cried, pointing her wand at the dragon’s chains.

They broke with little resistance, but the dragon still didn’t seem to realize it was free, nor that it had four people on it.

A wizard broke through the resistance of Hermione’s shield charm, hitting the dragon in the foot. It yanked the foot back, roaring again, spitting out a weak plume of fire, and then seemed to register it was no longer tethered.

Experimentally, it unfurled its wings, spreading them across the space and shielding the group from any errant spells.

It shook itself heavily, as a dog shakes off water, and they all held on as tightly as possible.

With a mighty roar and an even greater pillar of fire, it shot up in the air, drawing screams and yells from everyone around it.

Draco was holding Harry so tightly it hurt.  


The great wings caught air, and the dragon spiraled through the open space, trying desperately to reach the dim sliver of light visible at the top.

“COME ON, DRAGON!” Ron bellowed, as they caught sight of the ceiling above them.

“IT’S GOING TO SMASH THROUGH!” Hermione screamed, but she was wrong—the dragon opened its mouth and let go another blast of fire, splintering and breaking open the ceiling.

Harry had no idea where they were—his eyes were firmly shut against the falling rubble all around them. He supposed they could be in the main entrance, judging by the screams, but all he could concentrate on were Draco’s arms around him, counting on the bruising pressure to make sure he was still there.

In what seemed like seconds—but it could have been minutes, hours—everything seemed to clear.

There was light against his eyelids, a ringing in his ears and he was unharmed—or maybe he had died.

Harry coughed and opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a dragon’s head against a light grey and cloudy sky. He blinked and looked at where they were.

They seemed to be perched on the top of the Gringotts building, the dragon apparently resting for a moment as it spread its wings without taking flight.

“I think—“ Hermione began, sounding shaken, “I think it’s soaking up the light.”

Harry turned his head and became even more aware of Draco pressed against him, his head still tucked between Harry’s jaw and his shoulder.

“You can open your eyes now,” Harry murmured, but Draco shook his head.

“Heights,” was all the reply he got.

Harry would have laughed, or comforted him, but the dragon roared once more and spread his wings wider, kicking off from the roof and launching into the air.

“Don’t look now,” Harry yelled over the wind. Draco squeezed him once.

“You’re an idiot,” he said.

Harry actually did laugh at that.

 

“We do _have_ the Horcrux, right?” Draco called out, his voice right in Harry’s ear, as they flew over a lake that vaguely reminded him of riding Buckbeak in third year.

“I’d be loath to turn around,” Hermione laughed, and Harry leaned to avoid her hair as it flew in his face again.

“It’s in my jacket, with the Cloak,” Harry answered both of them, patting the lump in his clothing. “I shoved it in when we were—“

_Harry Potter._

Harry froze, breaking off, whatever he was talking about flying completely from his mind.

_Harry Potter._

That was his voice. That was Voldemort’s voice. Talking to _him—_ directly to him.

“Harry?” Draco asked, sounding a bit more urgent. “Harry, you do have it, don't you?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, not really paying attention to the question. He was barely aware of anything. “Just…just hold on a second…”

_I know what you have taken, Harry Potter._

“Harry!”

_You have taken something of mine. You have taken many things of mine._

“We need…get off,” Harry said, compiling everything he had to force the voice from his mind.

“Harry. Harry!”

Was that Draco?

 _Harry Potter_.

Harry seized up, an explosion of mind-splitting pain bursting in the front of his head.

_I am now going to take something you’ve loved._

Harry gasped and clutched his head, the pain radiating from the front to the back and pulsing with each second, keeping time with his pain.

Even through his agony, terror and dread flashed through him at Voldemort’s threat.

“Draco,” Harry gasped, not quite meaning to vocalize it.

_Something we have both needed. That we have always had claim to._

“Yes? Harry, please, what’s happening?”

“Hogwarts!” Harry yelled, clutching his forehead.

_Come to me. Let us finish this the way we were intended._

His pain reached a crescendo as Harry fell off of the dragon, getting a quick sensation of falling and panic before everything ceased with an onset of blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One note about one of the lines:  
> "Draco was holding Harry so tightly it hurt": YES—this is a direct line from the Room of Requirement later on in the DH canon. I put this line here for multiple different reasons—if you’re interested, I can explain it further in the comments!
> 
> Other than that, I don't have much to say! This next chapter though, marks the beginning of the end...but it's such a long ending! It's also gonna be pretty long, so prepare for that.  
> As always, leave me a comment to say what you think! See you soon :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there’s actually some required knowledge for this chapter, namely Aberforth’s house in the original book. I cut a lot because there’s no point in repeating what you already know…
> 
> Enjoy!

He was drowning.

For a moment, he couldn’t remember what had happened, and so he focused for a second on the fact that _he was drowning_.

He seemed to have had a massive headache, though, and take the oxygen deprivation away from the whole thing and drowning was actually helping to soothe it. Cool water against his forehead, utter silence and weightlessness—

 _Maybe it’s just the water part_ , he reflected, as he desperately tried to find the strength to move his arms. He really needed air.

And then, in a rush, it all came back to him.

Gringotts—the dragon—the vision—Voldemort—Hogwarts—he needed to get to Hogwarts.

And didn’t he have a wand?

Thrusting his hand in his pocket, he drew his wand and pointed it the depths of the water below him.

Like a cannon, he propelled himself up and shot out of the water, gasping for breath and splashing back down under, but managing to stay afloat.

“HARRY!”

Three screams filled the air as he appeared, followed by the splashing sound of people swimming towards him.

Draco reached him first, Ron close behind and Hermione in the rear. He accepted Draco’s help but ignored his questions and panicked concerns, trying to regain normal thought, heartbeat and breathing patterns.

They swam to shore without a word, except for Draco, who alternated between pulling Harry along and babbling almost incoherently. As soon as Harry’s feet touched sand he threw himself down, his head swimming and breath still uneven.

“Malfoy, mate, leave him for a moment,” Harry heard Ron say, and Draco’s concerned ramblings finally calmed down.

Harry flopped onto his back, not caring in the slightest how much sand he was getting everywhere. Draco kneeled down beside him, taking his hand and stroking the hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks back away from his face.

Hermione and Ron were a blur to his vision as they flung clothes off and pulled more out of the beaded bag, exchanging their wet disguises for dry Muggle clothes. Hermione threw what looked like a button down and jeans to Draco, who let them land in the sand beside him without a thought.

“We have to get to Hogwarts,” Harry said finally, and was met with silence. “Now,” he added, hoping this would make a difference.

“Why?” Hermione whispered, but her tone implied she was dreading the answer.

“He’s going to attack,” Harry answered. “You-Know-Who, he’s going to attack it. Kill them all, take it over—we have to stop it.”

“How do you know this?” Draco asked him urgently, squeezing his hand. Hermione looked back at them and spelled Harry’s and Draco’s clothes dry, Summoning back the ones she had thrown Draco.

“He sent me a vision,” Harry replied, and noises of resentment rose in reply.

“You’re supposed to be blocking those,” Draco reprimanded.

Harry exhaled and sat up. “I _know_. I tried to, even, until we got off the dragon…but he was appealing directly _to_ me. There were no games, it was a message.”

“Saying he was going to attack Hogwarts,” finished Ron.

Harry nodded, swallowing.

“Harry—I hate to say this,” Hermione sniffled, and Harry twisted to look at her. She looked devastated. “But Hogwarts has been under attack, really, for weeks now. All year! It’s…not our place. It’s not what we’re supposed to be doing.”

“Hogwarts was never safe,” Draco reminded him, siding with Hermione. “You-Know-Who’s influence has been there since the start of term.”

“But he’s going to battle tonight,” Harry protested.

“With a school,” Draco said dubiously.

“You don’t understand, Hogwarts isn’t just a school to him,” Harry explained, sighing. “It was his first home, it was the only place he ever felt like he—“

He stopped talking suddenly, another thing occurring to him.

The only place Voldemort had ever felt at home, the place hundreds of years worth of students had come before him, the place that had introduced him to wizards and magic—

“He has a Horcrux at Hogwarts.” Harry realized, distantly amazed none of them had thought of it sooner.

“Harry,” Hermione tried, but Harry waved her off.

“Hermione—how could he not? He loved Hogwarts. Or…he felt he had claim to it,” Harry explained, repeating the words Voldemort had spoken in his vision. “That’s what he said, he ‘had claim’. If he hid one at that Gaunt house, why not Hogwarts?”

“It feels too obvious,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “It makes sense, but who knows who would have found it? Dumbledore? Someone who knew how to destroy it?”

“What if no one would have found it?” Harry challenged.

Hermione still looked dubious. “I find that hard to believe…”

“Slytherin installed a pretty big secret chamber under a bathroom and no one noticed it for like five hundred years,” Ron pointed out. Hermione didn’t seem to have an immediate rebuttal for that one.

“Exactly!” Harry said.

“But why should we go when he’s attacking?” Hermione asked, the fear coming back in her eyes again. “We’d do more harm than good!”

“It’s the only time we can,” Harry said, blinking in another revelation.

“What do you mean?” Draco said, his brow furrowing. Harry looked at him, still forming his thoughts.

“He said so— _let us finish this the way we were intended_. It’s the final fight—which means he can die!” he exclaimed, climbing suddenly to his feet.

“Harry, he could be tricking you! It’s not exactly below him to create an unfair fight against you,” Hermione said, rushing up to him.

“Actually,” Harry replied, “yes, it is.”

“Are you actually advocating for You-Know-Who’s morality right now?” Draco demanded.

“No,” Harry answered simply. “I’m defending his honor.”

“Has he gone mental?” Ron chimed in.

“Think about it,” Harry said, backing up so he could face them all. “In the graveyard in fourth year. He had me strapped to a gravestone. I couldn’t move. I didn’t have my wand. He could have cursed me then! I wouldn’t have been able to do anything! Hell, he could have slit my throat! Stabbed me in the heart!”

“Okay, okay,” Draco stopped him, grimacing.

“My point is that he let me down. He untied me, set me on my feet to face him,” Harry continued. “He could have killed me easily but that’s not what he wanted. He only wanted me dead if he could prove he could beat me. Fairly. He needs to prove, once and for all, that he’s more powerful than I am.”

Harry looked at all of them, waiting for one of them to try and contradict him.

No one did.

“If we go right now,” Harry said slowly, his heart beating faster and louder at the realization, “You-Know-Who will be there. And so will every Horcrux we have left. He’s going to make this a fair fight—and give us everything we need to take him down… _just to prove we can’t._ ”

“Oh my God,” Hermione breathed, covering her mouth with her hands.

“It’s a challenge. He honestly believes I’m incapable,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it—this what we need! We need to get going!”

Heart still hammering, Harry gave them all one last look of determination and ferocity, his gaze lingering on Draco for a moment longer.

_This is it._

He took out the Cloak and gathered everyone together.

“We’ll go to Hogsmeade and work out a plan from there,” he decided, throwing the Cloak over them all and making sure they were covered. “Are you ready?”

Hermione and Ron nodded, and Harry looked at Draco. Draco looked back up at him, something burning in his eyes.

“Ready,” he answered.

Harry nodded back and they Disapparated, into the unknown and the final battle.

 

They arrived in the haze of the evening. It was a twinkling twilight that looked so similar to so many sunsets and early nights that Harry had seen in his years at Hogwarts, and the familiarity and sudden homesickness of it all was almost staggering.

They barely had time to look around at the part of Hogsmeade they had ended up in before a piercing scream rang out in the silence of the night, making them all draw their wands. Immediately, a hoard of Death Eaters came pouring from the Three Broomsticks.

The four of them froze, still hidden under the Cloak as the screaming continued. The Death Eaters looked all around them, as if expecting Harry to jump out right in front of them.

“ _Accio Cloak!_ ” one of them snarled. Each of them grabbed the nearest handful of fabric, but the Cloak seemed to resist the Summoning Charm.

“Not under your wrapper then, Potter?”

“How do they know it’s us?” Draco breathed, and Harry shrugged.

“Must have been warned,” Harry whispered back. He licked his lips as the Death Eaters continued to roam around with their wands out. Voldemort may have given him everything he needed to end it all, but by no means did that mean it was suddenly going to be easy.

“Spread out. He’s here. If we miss him, we’re dead!” the Death Eater continued, barking orders.

Half of the group ran towards them, and they almost dove out of the way, barely retaining invisibility. The Death Eaters charged past while the four of them crouched by a random wooden crate, huddling together to fit under the Cloak.

“This is a bad idea,” Hermione whispered. “We should Disapparate now!”

“They’ll have warded against it by this point.” Draco whispered back.

“How do we find ‘im?” one of them yelled.

“Should we get the dementors?” another suggested.

Hermione clutched Harry’s arm. He could hear Draco’s breathing quicken and he placed a hand over the boy’s mouth, trying to stifle the sound.

“—wants him _alive_ ,” the leader of the group was replying.

“Dementors aren’t gonna kill ‘im!”

“The easier it is for him to kill Potter, the better. Don’t you think?”

The leader sighed. “Fine. Call them. On your heads be it!”

Harry raised his wand automatically as he felt a freezing sensation sweep over all them, like a chill wind signifying a dry and bitter winter.

“ _No,_ ” Draco hissed, lowering his hand with his own. “They know your Patronus! They don’t know mine.”

Harry looked at him, wanting to protest, but Draco raised his eyebrows and shook his head, raising his own wand instead.

Around the corner they came, ragged and cloaked and drifting, breath rattling in their empty and scabbed bodies.

Harry’s heart seemed to stop for a moment as the dread immediately washed over him. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on anything else.

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” Draco whispered, his voice shaking. Harry opened his eyes, but nothing happened.

“Come on, Draco,” he breathed, shifting slightly to look Draco in the eyes. “You know what to think about.”

Draco swallowed.

“Expecto Patronum,” he whispered fiercely, and Hermione and Ron gasped as the silver phoenix burst from Draco’s wand, screeching as it flew towards the Dementors.

They reared back, and the Death Eaters began yelling anew.

“What was _that?!_ ”

“It was a bird!”

“Did ‘is Patronus change?”

“Why would his Patronus be a bird?”

“I don't know ‘im, do I?”

Footsteps were getting nearer, but they seemed more random than strategic.

“Who’s there?” one of them called.

“Because Potter’s just going to _tell_ us if he’s there,” his companion drawled.

Right in front of them, before any of them could act, there was the creaking sound of a door opening, a sliver of yellow light spilling onto the road in front of them.

“Potter!” A rough voice yelled hoarsely at them. “In here, quick!”

Harry tried to pinpoint the speaker, but came up blank. He looked around to see if anyone else recognized the voice, but they looked just as confused and cautious as he was.

“Is that door open?” One of the Death Eaters spoke, his voice much closer than it had been, and Harry made a split second decision. Waving at Ron and Hermione and grabbing Draco’s hand, he took off at a sprint towards the door, the Cloak slipping from each of them. Harry grabbed it out of the air and Hermione, bringing up the rear, slipped into the house just seconds before the Death Eaters rounded the corner.

Harry immediately backed up against the wall and gathered them all together, still holding onto Draco as he threw the Cloak over all of them again. They hadn’t yet seen their savior, and he was still blocked from view as the door opened again, blocking everything except for his hands and legs.

“Can I help you?” the man asked nastily, obviously talking to the two Death Eaters that almost caught them.

“Have you seen anyone run through here?” one of them replied. “Or cast a Patronus?”

“Has someone broken curfew?” the man asked, heavily layering his voice with a fake concern. “However will we survive?”

“It was ‘arry Potter, if that changes yer mind,” the Death Eater informed him angrily.

“Harry Potter? Ha!” the man laughed. “You talking about that Patronus? That was _me!_ ”

“You?!” the Death Eater sputtered.

“Yes! Send dementors up and down this street again and you’ll get a hell of a lot more than my Patronus! Bloody fools, all of you.”

“Your Patronus is a bird?” the Death Eater’s partner inquired dubiously.

“A _bird—_ it’s a phoenix, you daft sod! I’d say that makes a fair amount sense, given _who I am_.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. How would a phoenix identify the man that had saved them?

“But—we were warned—“

“Oh, get some sense, man! What are you gonna do? Arrest me? Kill me? Try to pass me off as _Harry Potter_?” the man practically spit this last. Harry could see through the cracks in the door the hooded figures step back a bit, looking at each other.

“Fine,” one of them said finally. “But break curfew again, and you know what we’ll do.”

“I’m _shaking_ ,” the man deadpanned, and slammed the door in their faces, bolting it behind them.

Harry breathed and yanked off the Cloak, revealing the four of them. He turned to face their savior, who he now recognized as the bartender of the Hog’s Head.

The barman blinked at the appearance of three additional people, raising his eyebrows especially at Draco, who stared back honestly.

“Well then,” the barman said, turning around and leading them towards a rickety wooden staircase. “Come upstairs, you bloody fools.”

They followed him obligingly, not saying a word until they reached the room he led them into.

The carpet was so thin beneath their feet that Harry could feel the division of the wooden planks beneath it, and the room was much hotter than the rest of the house. A fireplace sat tucked into the back wall, a small flame going in the hearth. Above the fireplace was mounted a large portrait of a young girl, smiling softly at Aberforth and breathing slowly, completely stationary other than that.

“Thank you,” Harry began, but the barman waved him off.

“I can’t believe you would be dim enough to come here,” he growled, shooting uncertain and irritated glances at them. “And with the Malfoy boy—what’s he doing here?”

“He rescued us from his house,” Harry said immediately, and Aberforth looked faintly surprised.

“I heard something like that,” he said gruffly, eyeing Draco. “Didn’t believe it.”

Draco reddened and his jaw clenched, but merely exhaled and remained silent.

“Who are you?” Ron asked bluntly, still looking faintly suspicious of their rescuer.

“Aberforth,” the man answered, and Hermione gasped.

“Aberforth,” Harry repeated with a jolt to his system, his mind’s eye immediately flashing to Rita Skeeter’s accursed biography. “You’re Dumbledore’s brother.”

Aberforth merely grunted in reply.

An uncomfortable silence fell upon the five of them, mainly shared by the group of teenagers waiting for something to be said by the potentially volatile old man on the other side of the room.

 _Dumbledore’s brother_ , Harry’s brain reminded him in awe. The difference between them was staggering, even though Harry knew that blood relation was a little indicator of a personality. One only had to look between Regulus and Sirius, or Andromeda and her sisters—even Percy and the twins, really—to see that fact.

Still, the old man shuffling around in the dirty apartment they were in was a far cry from the kind and mysterious twinkling professor Harry had once loved and admired.

This man seemed aggressive and gruff but at the same time dulled and jaded, something that Harry supposed matched up relatively well with the little and warped knowledge he had of the man.

“You need food, don’t you?” Aberforth asked suddenly, and Ron’s stomach growled in answer as if it was being directly appealed to.

“Er—yeah,” Harry translated lamely.

He led them back downstairs and set them up a crude but extremely suitable meal, and they ate quickly, not realizing until then how hungry they were.

Draco finished before Harry and unthinkingly leaned against him in his chair, head falling onto Harry’s shoulders.

Aberforth’s eyebrows raised, unnoticed by Harry, but it passed without comment.

“Don’t fall asleep, now,” Harry murmered, dropping his roll of bread and turning his head to drop a quick and discreet kiss on the top of Draco’s head.

He felt the blond smile against his shoulder. “You could almost forget what we were here to do like this,” Draco said, too quiet for anyone but Harry to hear.

Harry’s fond smile slid from his face as a spasm of fear and anticipation shot through his chest.

“Yeah,” he whispered, unable to think of anything else to say.

“The next thing to do is to think of a way to smuggle the four of you out of here—I don’t think you should risk spending the night, but it might be too dangerous to go tonight…” Aberforth said, walking over to the window and yanking the curtain back, peering out into the street.

“We’re not leaving,” Harry said suddenly, realizing what Aberforth saying. He and Draco sat up as Aberforth whipped back around, staring at them in disbelief.

“You have to,” he said, but Harry shook his head.

“We need to get into Hogwarts,” Harry told him, watching the look of shock cross Aberforth’s face.

“You can’t,” he denied them firmly. “You’d have to be absolutely insane to try that. You’re not insane, are you, Potter?”

Draco laughed shortly, but quieted at Harry’s look.

“I’m not insane,” Harry answered easily, “It’s part of a job we were left. By Dumble—by your brother.”

Aberforth didn’t reply for a moment, looking away and shaking his head.

“All the more reason not to,” he mumbled eventually, looking towards the window again.

“Why?” Hermione challenged him this time. “Because of some childhood resentment you might have of him?”

Aberforth glared at her. “I am a very old man, _girl_ ,” he replied, through clenched teeth. “The stupid animosities of children are long forgotten.”

“Then what’s your problem?” Ron asked.

“While I might not hold on to petty fights children have,” he said, his tone growing angrier, “I remember vividly my brother’s betrayal and abandonment, his _shame_ , and his recklessness.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Dumbledore we knew,” Hermione protested, looking to Harry for encouragement. Harry shook his head, not even knowing where to begin to argue.

“Doesn’t it?” Aberforth countered. “You said he gave you a job to do, in this brutal war? Like a soldier? That’s what he does with people. He’s the…general of philosophy. He commands people and stays away from it all, and that’s what he’s done with you.”

Harry finally felt his anger sparked, the insinuation that all of this pain and danger was simply a result of manipulation so far from the truth that he felt a desire to _show_ this disgruntled old man that he was more than just the handiwork of his brother.

“He’s _dead_ ,” Harry said harshly, fixing Aberforth with a hard stare. “How is that safe? How is that _removed_? He died trying to save the Wizarding World—trying to show me what to do.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Aberforth shrugged. “Whatever happened, none of it matters now. It’s over—You-Know-Who’s won. What you need to do is leave, leave the country, and try to survive for as long as you can.”

“He wouldn’t last,” Draco spat, and they all turned to him surprise. He looked mutinous suddenly, rage and deep dislike directed intensely at Aberforth, who seemed only slightly fazed as he stared back. “You-Know-Who’s forces are _global_ , he’d have to hide in the fucking _desert_ to not be affected, or find some _jungle_ somewhere—“

“Draco,” Harry said quickly, startled, trying to calm him down.

“It’s people like him, that don’t care if you live or die, that makes it more dangerous for you,” Draco said, turning to Harry and speaking almost desperately.

“But he does care,” Harry said, his eyes moving back to Aberforth. “He won’t admit it, but he does care. He hasn’t given up.”

“Don’t put hope in people you shouldn’t put hope in,” Aberfoth growled.

“Why’d you rescue us, then? Why not let us be captured, why not let this thing be over for real?” Harry asked boldly, gesturing towards the door.

“Just because I’ve given up doesn’t mean I want to see innocent kids die on my front porch,” Aberforth shot back, and Harry shook his head.

“Help us find safe passage into Hogwarts,” Harry said, “and you can be free from this war. Whatever happens will happen tonight—just help us get there.”

Aberforth looks at him for a moment. “You’ve got to be suicidal, Potter.”

“No, I’m really not,” Harry said.

Aberforth grunted, and turned towards the fireplace. He seemed to be facing the portrait of the young girl mounted on the wall.

“You know what to do,” he told her solemnly, and the girl smiled at him sort of mysteriously before turning and beginning to walk out of the portrait—but not by walking towards the edges of her frame like Harry had seen portraits do to leave, but by walking behind her and further into her painted background, eventually disappearing from view.

“Is that your sister?” Hermione asked hesitantly, watching Aberforth’s eyes stare at the painting long after the girl had retreated.

“Yeah,” Aberforth answered, his tone soft. “That’s Ariana.”

No one said anything else after that, just silently watched the portrait and awaited Ariana Dumbledore’s return.  


When she did, Harry immediately noticed that her painted figure no longer seemed to be alone. With her was another figure, much larger than her and noticeably male, limping slightly and getting larger and larger until the portrait suddenly swung away from the wall, revealing a hole and the figure—

“Harry!”

Harry stared at him in disbelief. The shocked gasps of his companions went unheard as he stepped forward to the beaten and bloodied but still grinning boy.

“ _Neville_?”

 

Neville explained, as he led them all through the sloping and rocky underground path into the castle, that Hogwarts was in its worst state in its history. With the installment of Snape as Headmaster and the employment of active Death Eaters, proceedings had turned positively medieval.

He grimly described the horrors of punishment that the Carrows had forcibly inflicted on them and others, the total curriculum restructure, the terror in almost every student and the horrible victory in others. He pointed to each bruise, cut and scrape on his face and explained, vaguely proudly, of how he had obtained it: this was his segue into the resistance force of students that had been going on virtually all year.

“It’s Dumbledore’s Army again!” Neville said proudly, grinning around at them all. “Me, Ginny, Luna—a whole _bunch_ of us! And some Slytherins, too—can you believe that?”

“Dumbledore’s Army,” Draco repeated faintly, and Harry had a sense of what exactly was going on in his mind.

“What do they know about Draco?” Harry asked anxiously, and the wandlight passed over Neville’s face to reveal a comforting expression.

“For the most part, they all believe that you’ve totally defected,” Neville told them. “You know how rumors spread. People said all sorts of things. No one was really sure what to think, even after that supposed sighting in London, until Gringotts. Now you’re kind of a hero, even.”

“For the most part?” Harry echoed, even though Draco looked enormously relieved.

Neville looked at them uncomfortably. “Well, some people kind of refuse to believe it until they’ve seen it with their own eyes. Like Dean, for example, and even Pansy Parkinson—it’s weird when they’re both on the same side of an argument.”

“Well, we’ll show them when we get there,” Harry said firmly, and Neville nodded quickly.

“Of course. It’s just…hard to trust everything you hear these days,” Neville said.

“We understand, Neville,” Hermione cut in smoothly. “Harry’s just a bit defensive of Draco.”

Harry shot her a look, but she ignored him and Ron shrugged in agreement.

“Well, I have reason,” Harry grumbled, and Draco grinned at him, stepping closer and looping an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

“I have Golden Boy’s word,” he drawled, sounding close to the version of Draco that Harry had once thought he had known. “What else do I need?”

Harry found, surprisingly, that he had almost missed it.

 

Neville led them through the rest of the tunnels and up a last long incline until they finally arrived at an inconspicuous wooden door.

“This leads to the Room of Requirement,” Neville explained. “Neither the Carrows nor Snape seem to know about it.”

“Snape doesn’t remember it from fifth year?” Hermione asked, sounding puzzled.

Neville shrugged. “Either way, no one’s bothered us here. That’s the best we can get. I think they’re out to kill me,” he added conversationally, glancing back at them all with raised eyebrows.

“ _Kill_ you?” Ron clarified, sounding vaguely disbelieving.

“Oh, yeah. I mean, it was the three of us that started this—me, Ginny, Luna—and I was the only one left. They realized I’m their only threat, and my gran’s on the run—I’m literally hiding out under their noses.” Neville answered, and his voice carried the same proud undertone Harry had detected earlier.

“So this is it?” Draco asked, nodding at the door.

“Yeah,” Neville replied, then grinned at them all. “They should all be here—just _wait_ till they see you.”

And he pushed the door open, calling out as he did so.

“Look who it is! I told you he was coming!”

Harry emerged first, into the bright but comfortable light of the Room, but was immediately assaulted by a veritable symphony of noises and screams.

“HARRY!”

“Oh my God—it’s him! It’s Harry!”

“POTTER! IT’S POTTER! POTTER!”

“Holy _shit_!”

He took a step back instinctively, as his vision focused on the swarm of students, some of which he immediately recognized and others he had maybe encountered once in his life, all running up to him, still crying out.

Ron and Hermione emerged next, amidst renewed screams of joy, the pair of them looking startled but grateful.

Harry looked back as Draco stepped slowly out from the darkness, his face the picture of apprehension.

There were gasps and immediate mutterings after a shocked silence had swept the room.

“I _told_ you,” one Hufflepuff girl hissed, hitting her friend on the arm.

After this not-so-subtle whisper, the quiet and hesitation was shattered.

“ALL RIGHT, MALFOY!” someone shouted, and Harry bit back a smile at Draco’s immediate surprise.

Cheers erupted for him as they had done for Harry, Ron and Hermione, Draco glancing at them all in disbelief.

Dean sidled up next to Harry, still looking worried.

“Are you sure you can trust him?” he muttered, shooting a sideways glance at Draco.

“Absolutely,” Harry answered confidently, addressing the crowd as a whole. “Draco is just as brave as any of you are—I hope you all can see that.”

“It’s true, then?” A Gryffindor boy Harry was sort of familiar with spoke up, his question spurring interested faces to look Harry’s way. “He rescued you from the Death Eaters?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered. “It was incredible, actually, he just blasted everyone away and grabbed me and Disapparated—it was the last thing I expected; I didn’t know what to think…I imagine you all are sort of the same…”

“Draco has become an integral part and a vital presence in the fight against You-Know-Who’s regime,” Hermione said clearly, calling all of the attention to her. “He deserves your respect and your admiration.”

A smattering of applause greeted her words, and Draco’s lips spread slowly into a smile, a surprised look still in his eyes.

Everyone, including Dean, seemed to be happy with this testimonial, and it was with a flash of panic that Harry remembered why they were there.

“I need everyone to really listen now,” Harry said, waiting for everyone to stop talking and give him their attention. It was vital everyone knew what was happening—he didn’t want whatever attack there was going to be that night to be on defenseless people. “You-Know-Who is going to attack Hogwarts tonight. And it’s because I’m here.”

Harry assessed the crowd for their reaction. Some of them looked unsurprised, some of them suddenly terrified, and more still immediately looked battle-ready.

“I could end it all tonight,” Harry explained, looking around at them all, “but there’s something I need to find.”

Multiple people opened their mouth to ask questions, but before anyone could say anything, the heavy door at the other side of the room opened to reveal a whole crowd of familiar faces: Luna, in front, holding up her Galleon and clinging to Ginny, who smiled at Harry as her hair tumbled around her shoulders—it was longer than he had ever seen it.

With a jolt, he realized that there wasn’t really a way Ginny could know about him and Draco. He briefly considered throwing the entire war just to never have that conversation.

He smiled quickly back and dropped his gaze, avoiding both her stare and Draco’s.

How was this even a problem when he was basically announcing the final battle of the war?

Fred and George both filed in after them, grinning and high-fiving those within their reach. Lee Jordan was right behind them, followed closely by Cho Chang— _right_ , Harry thought, _her too…._

She smiled at him, eyes twinkling far too much for Harry’s liking.

“We got your message,” Luna said, and they all nodded. “It’s wonderful that Harry’s here, but what’s happening?”

“Harry was just telling us,” Neville said, motioning for Harry to continue.

“Right,” Harry said, forcing his future romantic troubles aside for a second. “There’s something I need to find that’s key to the destruction of You-Know-Who. I’m really sorry, but I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Not even what it is?” Ginny asked, confusion knitting her eyebrows together.

“No,” Harry answered, “I…er, I don’t actually know.”

Mutterings swept around the group once again.

“It’ll have something to do with the founders of Hogwarts,” Draco chimed in. “Most likely, we’re looking for a relic of Ravenclaw. Does anyone know anything like that? Something they’ve seen around the castle?”

The great majority of people looked blankly back at them, and even the group of Ravenclaws seemed lost as they whispered back and forth to each other.

“There’s the lost diadem of Ravenclaw,” Luna piped up, and Harry looked to her hopefully, but her suggestion was met with sighs of exasperation.

“The what?” asked Draco sharply, a curious expression on his face.

“The lost diadem of Ravenclaw,” Ernie Macmillon supplied, his face and tone much less enthusiastic than Luna’s. “But it’s _lost_. That’s the point. No one’s even seen it for hundreds of years.”

“Yes, they have,” Draco said quietly. Ernie scoffed.

Harry turned to him in surprise. “Who?”

Draco looked faintly back at him. “Me,” he breathed, eyes wide.

Voices rose up around Draco’s claim, especially Luna’s, her high soprano fighting to be heard over the noise of everyone else.

“Where?” Harry pressed, dread sinking into his stomach as he thought of the possibilities. “The Manor?”

“Oh God, it’s not in Gringotts, is it?” Hermione asked, covering her mouth.

“No,” Draco assured them quickly. “I’m almost positive it’s in the castle. In fact—“ he looked around suddenly, eyes scanning the room. Harry blinked and looked around with him.

“There’s a replica of it in on Ravenclaw’s statue, in the common room,” Luna suggested brightly, coming forward to smile at Draco. “Would you like me to show you? Just to check?”

“Um. That’d be great, thanks,” Draco said, obviously thrown by Luna’s unwavering show of kindness towards him.

“I’m going with you,” Harry decided immediately. “Ron, Hermione—you stay here, maybe…explain further…tell them what’s coming, okay?”

The pair nodded, Ron looking unsure of his new command but Hermione turning towards the group of students and taking charge immediately as Harry, Draco and Luna fought their way through the mass of bodies.

They exited under the Invisibility Cloak, checking around every corner for a watchmen or teacher, trying to get to the Ravenclaw common room as quickly and as quietly as possible.

As they passed a suit of armor that glinted slightly in the moonlight, Harry was struck with a sudden and intense pain radiating from his scar that blinded him temporarily, forcing him to grab Draco’s arm and force both him and Luna to stop.

He had the brief sensation of flying, and a faraway intention of Hogwarts—Voldemort was coming for the school at this very moment—and coming for him as well.

“Voldemort’s on his way,” Harry muttered, resurfacing to see Draco and Luna’s worried faces.

“Oh, we can say the name now?” Luna whispered.

Harry shrugged, starting to walk forward shakily. “Might as well. He’s coming for us anyway.”

Draco swallowed and paled, but nodded and resolved to just hold Harry’s hand for support as they made their way through the darkened corridors.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Luna remarked vaguely, upon seeing their joined hands. Harry laughed lightly.

They turned another corner and Luna silently motioned them over, pulling them into a sudden alcove and staircase. She led them up the tight spiral and through the door with the questioning eagle knocker, guiding them through the passageway as quietly as she could in order to not wake any of the sleeping students in the dormitories above.

Though it was hard to see in the limiting light of the night sky, Harry could easily tell that the Ravenclaws had by far the most elegant quarters of all the Hogwarts students. True, he had not yet seen Hufflepuff, but he doubted it could compare to the ease and intelligence with which the room seemed to emit its grace. His eyes roamed the room for a tall statue and found one tucked into a corner between two bookshelves, in a slim niche in the wall. He turned to Draco and motioned for him to inspect it closer.

Draco nodded and slipped out from under the Invisibility Cloak, walking silently among the hardwood floors and up to the statue, his gaze fixed on the marble woman’s head.

“I know where the Horcrux is,” he said solemnly.

“Well,” came a woman’s voice from the other end of the room, “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here, Mr. Malfoy.”

 

Draco whirled around to face the curious if not cold gaze of Minerva McGonagall, her hands clasped calmly in front of her as she assessed him.

“Professor,” he said, and wondered why Harry and Luna weren’t making their presence known. Was it possible McGonagall was still his enemy?

“Would you care to enlighten me as to what exactly you are hoping to accomplish?” she asked, arching her eyebrows and keeping her tone polite and inquisitional.

“I’m here to help,” Draco replied, knowing that he couldn’t get into any specifics. “If you can believe me.”

McGonagall nodded once. “Is it true you are traveling with Harry Potter?” she asked, and Draco could only just detect the note of hope in her voice.

“Yes,” Draco answered simply, and tried to telepathically urge Harry to take off the _fucking_ Cloak.

“Where is he? Is he in the castle?”

“Yes,” Draco said again, and breathed out in relief as he saw the Cloak slip from Luna and Harry behind McGonagall.

“He’s with us, Professor,” he said, and McGonagall jumped in shock, spinning on her heel to face them.

“Potter! Miss Lovegood! What—what are you _doing_ here?”

“Professor,” Harry said firmly, “you need to listen. Voldemort’s on his way right now, he’s about to attack the school.”

McGonagall shook her head, momentarily speechless.

“The entire school needs to be defended,” Harry continued. “He’s coming for me, he knows I’m here, he’s going to try and kill me—“

“Then we need to get you _out_!” McGonagall cried, already ushering him towards the door.

“I can’t,” Harry said, dodging her grasp. “Draco and I—we’re here with Ron and Hermione and we’re looking for something in the school that we need to destroy Voldemort.”

McGonagall looked round at Draco again briefly, who nodded in confirmation, as if his word meant something to her.

“What makes you think you need to do this?” she asked, sounding unsure.

“Dumbledore,” Harry answered, the name just as powerful in effect posthumously as it had been in the days of the headmaster’s life, and Draco saw this fact reflected in McGonagall’s face as the resolve formed in her eyes. “Draco knows where it is—please, Professor, we just need _time_.”

McGonagall swallowed. “Then time is what you shall receive,” she told him gravely, addressing the three of them at one time. “We will protect this castle from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as you retrieve this…whatever it is. But please hasten.”

“The war ends tonight,” Harry promised, a fierce glint shining brightly in his eyes for a moment as Draco watched him, prompting a sort of surge of pride and affection to rise in Draco’s chest, as it did whenever he saw the unintentional born-and-bred heroism in Harry come to the forefront of the boy’s being: it reminded him, if nothing else did, that he had finally picked the right path.

McGonagall looked at him for a moment, as if deciding whether or not she could believe that, but eventually nodded curtly in response.

“Evacuate the students that aren’t of age out through…well, Luna can explain better than I can.” Harry said, running a hand through his hair, and moving over to talk to Draco.

Luna quickly launched into her explanation of the passage through the Hog’s Head and Aberforth while Harry dropped his voice to low tones to talk to Draco.

“You’re sure you know where it is?” he asked, looking up at the statue.

“Absolutely,” Draco answered. “Harry—it’s in the Room of Requirement! In the room of hidden things—I spent my entire sixth year in there, it’s on a specific pile, I must have passed it hundreds of times.”

He took satisfaction in seeing Harry’s eyes light up with success, but nodded towards McGonagall so Harry could hear what she had to say next.

“We have to alert the Heads of Houses to the attack,” she said, and drew her wand to send her cat Patronuses out of the door and down the corridor. “Follow me—and all of you, get back under that Cloak!”

The four of them raced back down the staircase and down a corridor, McGonagall striding down the hallways with her robes flying out behind her, wand still drawn.

She whirled around a corner and passed a suit of armor, but stopped suddenly, body tensing up and wand raised.

Draco narrowly avoided crashing into her as Harry grabbed both him and Luna to force them to stop. He looked back to see Harry rubbing his scar, a grimace on his face. One look told Draco that they were not alone, that someone seemed to be either hiding from view or rapidly approaching them.

“Who’s there?” McGonagall demanded, and Draco held his breath as he waited for the answer.

“It is I,” came a very familiar voice, as Severus Snape stepped out from behind a suit of armor.

 _Severus!_ Draco thought, the flash of relief he felt purely instinctual. To him, Snape was still associated with the only real adult care he had ever been shown or that he had ever accepted, save his mother. But the way he felt Harry go rigid beside him and the huff of fury that escaped his lips indicated that Harry was feeling anything but comfort: it was only with a belated and reluctant effort that Draco reminded himself of Snape’s failings.

McGonagall, meanwhile, had hesitated, but ultimately lowered her wand. She said nothing as she stared at the Headmaster, waves of pure icy hatred rolling off of her.

“I have been warned that there is an intruder among us,” Snape informed her, speaking slowly and expressionlessly, as one would expect a solider to address someone he was dealing with.

“Your _colleagues_ have seldom been right about that,” McGonagall answered coldly. “Or did this information come directly from your _leader_?”

Draco had the sudden urge to deny it, to insist that Snape was no more evil than he was, that it was all a lie. But his old mentor and protector, in reality, had no defense that Draco could come up with. He was still a Death Eater, and unlike Draco, had remained loyal to Voldemort.

Snape hadn’t answered McGonagall, but instead had searched around her, as if looking for people he couldn’t see.

 _Does he know about the Cloak?_ Draco wondered suddenly, alarmed, shooting a look at Harry beside him.

“Is it your night to patrol?” Snape asked, eyes finally meeting McGonagall’s once more.

“Filch had complained to me of a disturbance,” McGonagall lied easily. “He insisted that I come to assess the situation.”

“Is that so?” Snape asked. “I thought I recalled Filch retiring early tonight…and everything seems calm.”

McGonagall didn't answer him.

His gaze only intensified as he stepped closer to her. “Minerva,” he began dangerously, “have you seen Harry Potter? Because, if you have, surely—“

McGonagall’s arm whipped up so fast Draco almost missed it—she slashed a spell at Snape that would have incapacitated any lesser dueler; but Snape was quicker even than her in his reaction: flinging up a Shield Charm and staggering backwards.

Harry’s wand flew up to either protect McGonagall or curse Snape—Draco couldn't tell—but at the same moment McGonagall Transfigured flames from a mounted torch into a storm of daggers and Draco knew the time of waiting was over.

“NO!” he shouted, pulling the Cloak off of him as he rushed to Snape’s aid, not thinking about the irrationality of his actions. “DON’T KILL HIM!”

“DRACO!” Harry called, sounding angry. “COME BACK!”

“Draco,” Snape hissed, his attention diverted momentarily from firing spell after spell at McGonagall to focus on him. “You _foolish_ boy—“

But Draco didn’t care about anything Snape said.

“HE DOESN’T DESERVE IT!” he screamed, terror and protectiveness choking him as Harry’s arms formed a cage around his midsection, dragging him away from the fight.

“You’re going to get yourself killed over him,” Harry snarled in his ear, and Draco forced himself to calm down a bit, instead trying desperate reasoning, letting Harry drag away from the still-flying curses.

“Harry—he doesn’t deserve to _die,_ who really deserves to _die_ —“

“Dumbledore didn’t,” Harry answered coldly. “Did those two Death Eaters you murdered back in Knockturn Alley count for less than this?”

Draco was shocked into temporary silence, stepping away from Harry as if he had physically slapped him. He remembered with a strong and sudden nausea the rage and fear that had driven the fatal curse from his lips—recognized then and there as curses zigzagged around him that he had already been responsible for so much.

What was Snape, in comparison to them?

Thankfully, the moment was broken by the appearance of Professor Flitwick, crying out as he saw the conflict and the three students, two of them wanted fugitives.

Professor Sprout bounded up behind him, along with Slughorn, panting and bringing up the rear.

Snape swooshed his wand at the rest of them, but to Draco’s horror, they immediately sided with McGonagall.

“You’ll do no more murder at Hogwarts!” Flitwick squeaked, the fury evident even in his voice.

With another almost corporeal shock of emotion, Draco realized that Snape was not the one in real danger here.

Snape, for the first time in Draco’s life, _was_ the danger to them all, even him.

He stepped back, watching numbly and unsure as Snape brought his wand swooshing down and the wall next to them crumbled down, forcing them all to cower and dive as Snape took off, darting into a classroom. The teachers chased after him first, a shattering of glass and the sound of McGonagall’s scream of fury.

“What happened?” Luna cried. Draco leapt to his feet and led them into the room behind the professors.

The window at the back of the classroom was shattered, a human-sized hole in the middle of it and glass still breaking and falling off into the darkness below.

“Did he jump?!” Harry asked, rushing to look down.

“Is he dead?” Draco whispered, horror filling him once again.

“Not dead,” answered McGonagall bitterly. “He had his wand—he flew away, like a _coward_.”

“What is all of this about, Minerva?” Flitwick asked, his voice wavering. “Why are Mr. Potter and his—“—he caught sight of Draco and faltered—“friends here?”

McGonagall turned to him, eyeing Slughorn and Sprout as well. “He-Who-Must-Be-Named is coming,” she informed them gravely. The professors looked horrified—Flitwick gasped and Sprout covered her mouth, while Slughorn looked ready to pass out. “We must barricade the school. Potter has important work to do here.”

“It is impossible to hold him out for long,” Flitwick warned her, his eyes flicking apologetically towards Harry.

“We have to do the best we can,” Sprout said determinedly, and McGonagall nodded at her.

“Very well,” Flitwick agreed. Slughorn nodded too, still whiter than Draco had ever seen him.

“We must get the underage students out,” McGonagall began to instruct the professors. “Rouse your houses and gather everyone into the Great Hall.”

The professors jogged off in different directions, Flitwick springing up charms as he ran.

“As for you,” McGonagall said, turning to Draco, Harry and Luna, “go immediately back to your group—round them up and send them to the Great Hall as well. Miss Lovegood—come with me, explain about how to get everyone out of here.”

Luna nodded, shooting a small but encouraging smile at Harry and Draco before hurrying after McGonagall.

“We’ve got to hurry,” Draco said, grabbing Harry’s sleeve. “The sooner we can get everyone out of the Room, the sooner we can start looking.”

Harry looked at him for a moment, and Draco stared back, unsure of why Harry was hesitating.

“What?” he asked defensively, dropping his hand.

“I’m—“ Harry started, but shook his head. “The thing with Snape. Are you—okay?” he asked, sounding unsure.

“Are you trying to apologize?” Draco asked, remembering Harry’s comment suddenly with a sting of hurt.

Harry bit his lip. “I’m trying to make sure you understood what I meant,” Harry said.

Draco stared him.

“What?”

“Are you kidding? They’re starting a war, and you want to win an argument?” Draco asked disbelievingly.

“I’m not trying to win an argument, I’m trying to make sure you’re not mad at me!” Harry said angrily.

“Hell of a time,” Draco scoffed.

“It is, actually!”

Draco shook his head and turned on his heel to start walking back to the Room of Requirement. “We don't have time for this, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry said, running up to his side and catching his arm. “But I have to do it now.”

“Why?” Draco demanded, shaking his hand off.

“Because they’re starting a war,” Harry answered, his voice hard and sincere. “And what if—this could be the last chance I have to tell you this.”

Harry’s words dropped like a stone in Draco’s stomach, and he shook his head unconsciously, rejecting the possibility even as he recognized its probability.

“You can’t say that,” he said, but Harry just shrugged.

“Then imagine there’s not a war,” he offered easily, “and I have all the time in the world to say this.”

“To say what?” Draco whispered.

“That I love you no matter what has happened in the past,” Harry vowed, stepping closer to Draco to grab one of his hands. “And I’ll love you no matter what happens tonight.”

Draco blinked, moisture pricking immediately at the back of his eyes. He swallowed through the lump in his throat and shut his eyes, squeezing Harry’s hand once before dropping it.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

Draco opened his eyes, breathing deeply and smiling at Harry. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

 

The Room was much more crowded than it had been by the time that Harry and Draco arrived. The entire Weasley family was the most noticeable, a mass of differently-sized redheads all talking and looking around. The entirety of the Order seemed to have arrived as well—Kingsley and Lupin were deep in worried conversation, along with many older students that Harry had come to know, such as Oliver Wood, Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell.

Everyone’s attention was immediately drawn to Harry and Draco, mutterings ceasing immediately.

“What’s happening?” Lupin demanded immediately, accepting Draco’s presence with barely a glance his direction.

“Voldemort’s about to attack the school,” Harry replied. “Everyone needs to get to the Great Hall now.”

“The school’s fighting, right?” Ginny asked, and Harry nodded.

“They’re evacuating everyone underage—McGonagall is giving instructions. Everyone, you need to go _now_.”

The mass of students in Dumbledore’s Army began to move towards the door, looks of determination and fear mingled on all their faces.

Some of the Order went with them, and the population of the Room slowly dwindled to one lone group of people: The Weasleys and Lupin, all trying to reason with the two women in the center. Ginny, who was struggling out of her mother’s grip, was shouting furiously at her mother as Mrs. Weasley clung to her and yelled back.

“You’re underage! You’re going to be kept _safe_!” Mrs. Weasley shouted at her as Harry ran to intervene.

“No!” Ginny protested. “I’ve been fighting all year—“

“And I took you out!”

“I was in Dumbledore’s Army—“

“A school gang!”

“That’s not a fair!” Ginny screamed, looking enraged.

“Mum, Dumbledore’s Army has been doing just as much for this war as the Order,” Fred pointed out, but shrank back slightly as Mrs. Weasley rounded on him.

“How can you _say_ that! She is _sixteen_! She is a _child_!”

“What was _Harry_ doing when _he_ was sixteen?” Ginny said, catching sight of him and throwing her arm at him, as if trying to enlist him to fight for her.

Mrs. Weasley turned on him, a pleading look on her face.

“Harry—you have to agree—Ginny can’t fight, it’s too dangerous,” she said desperately, clinging to her resisting daughter.

Harry opened his mouth, torn.

Ginny raised her eyebrows, and he tried not to feel too guilty as he stared back at her.

“How about this,” he said slowly, appeasing to both of them. “Ginny can stay here, in the Room. She won’t be fighting, but she’ll still be here.”

Both Ginny and Mrs. Weasley looked like they were about to argue, but Mr. Weasley cut in firmly.

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “Ginny, you _stay_ _here_.”

Ginny huffed and nodded, folding her arms and turning away angrily.

Harry turned to Draco, who came up to him immediately and bent down to his ear.

“Harry, she can’t stay here, we need the Room, and there’s no telling what could happen to someone if the room changes that drastically they’re in it—“

“Calm down,” Harry whispered. “She’s not staying here.”

He walked over to Ginny, who had gone to sulk in the corner. She glared at him as he approached.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, but she laughed bitterly.

“You know what I can do,” she bit out. “This _isn’t_ fair.”

“I know,” Harry replied. “That’s why you’re not staying here.”

Ginny’s gaze snapped up to Harry’s, a startled and confused expression on her face.

“You’re letting me fight?” she asked in a hushed voice, rising slowly from her chair. “But—you aren’t worried I’ll get hurt?”

Harry blinked, wondering if he should feel guilty. “Of course I am,” he answered. “But I still think you should fight.”

She looked him over, her expression morphing from confusion to surprise and understanding.

“You don’t love me anymore,” she remarked simply, her tone conveying nothing about her sentiment towards the fact.

“Oh,” was all Harry could think to say. “Ginny, I care about you—“

“No, I know,” she said, nodding. “But last year you never would have let me fight.”

Harry recognized that this was probably true.

“I believe in you,” he said. She nodded.

“It’s alright.”

Harry cleared his throat and dropped his eyes, hastily changing the subject back to what Ginny was supposed to do.

“You can’t be in here, so after everyone leaves sneak out with them and hide. Stand outside the Great Hall or something.”

She nodded, and Harry noticed suddenly the absence of two other people.

“Gin, where are Ron and Hermione?”

“Um,” Ginny said, furrowing her eyebrows. “They said something about a bathroom.”

Draco, who had come up behind Harry, snorted in amusement.

“Couldn’t contain themselves?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I don't know, they just rushed off—“

“Draco, go check the bathroom,” Harry said. “Are you sure they said bathroom?”

“I think so,” Ginny answered, shrugging. “Seemed odd to me too.”

“Do you think they meant—“

Before he could finish his sentence, a searing pain erupted from his scar and his vision swam, the Room of Requirement falling away to reveal a vision of trees—the outline of Hogwarts in the distance.

Nagini lay in front of him, and he felt a great urgency to protect the giant snake. Not an urge derived from any sort of love or responsibility, but out of necessity. Nagini was the last one, he must not let him get away as well.

 _“Come to me,”_ he hissed, in Parseltongue, and felt Nagini’s heavy weight as the snake slid up his body and settled on his shoulders.

He set off towards Hogwarts, his sights unwavering and with every intention of murder.

Harry gasped as he was brought of the vision, finding himself on his hands and knees on the floor with both Ginny and Draco kneeling around him. The room, other than the three of them, was empty, everyone else having left for the Great Hall.

“Ginny—go,” he breathed, and she blinked, perhaps thrown by his brusqueness, but quickly recovered and left the Room.

“Harry—what did you see?” Draco asked worriedly, moving to the front of him.

“The last Horcrux,” Harry answered, his breathing returning to normal. He exhaled and looked Draco in the eyes, holding the other’s astonished gaze. “It’s the snake. It’s Nagini.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah that was long...and plotty...  
> Anyway!  
> 1\. Of course, in the book, the conversation between the trio (now a foursome) and Aberforth spans a couple pages and delves into the whole Dumbledore-Grindelwald backstory from Aberforth’s perspective—and while this is very important for the original canon I decided to cut it because it doesn’t belong in this already too-plotty Drarry fic.  
> 2\. So yeah I cut out the Carrows scene too…  
> The NEXT chapter...is shorter. It's pretty short, actually. Um, look forward to it.  
> Until then...


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please continue to write me comments and stuff....I still love all of you.......  
> (even if it doesn't always seem like it...........)

“We’ve got to find Ron and Hermione,” Harry said, getting unsteadily to his feet.

“We’ve got to find the Horcrux,” Draco corrected, helping him up.

Harry shook his head. “We know where it is, it’s just a matter of getting it. I need to know where Ron and Hermione are, and I don't want to be searching for them carrying an evil tiara. At least it’s safe.”

Draco bit his lip. He had to admit, Harry did have a point.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Let’s go to the Great Hall—maybe Weasley really had to piss or something. They could have gone there.”

Harry looked unconvinced, but nodded anyway.

 

They weren’t there.

Both Harry and Draco scanned the Great Hall, the only ones not listening to Professor McGonagall, but both Ron and Hermione were noticeably absent from the Gryffindor table. The rest of the Weasleys, except for Ginny, were there, listening gravely to McGonagall give information and instructions.

Draco’s eyes slid over to the Slytherin table. No one had yet noticed his and Harry’s presence, and he found himself wondering which of them hated him.

He doubted Crabbe and Goyle’s schoolboy loyalty would hold up in his defense, especially considering his fairly dramatic personality change—and the thought made him feel curiously lonely.

The people he had once felt so welcomed and safe around now made him nervous—scared, even, as he thought back on the violence each of them were capable of.

_Still_ , he thought, looking over some familiar and unfamiliar faces. _Slytherin house is capable of such greatness._

Such greatness, really, and Draco knew with an absolute certainty that there were some worthy Slytherins who could put that greatness to the test in the fight against Voldemort.

Emboldened by this thought, he nudged Harry.

“I’m going to round up some Slytherins. Some of them will want to fight, and I doubt they’ll be given a fair chance otherwise.” Draco said, and Harry looked at him in surprise, but nodded.

“I’ll go over to the Gryffindors. See if I can get any more information.”

Draco nodded as well and watched him leave, watched heads turn and whispers start as he moved through the people, watched him pay none of it any mind.

He turned again to the Slytherins. Harry’s appearance had made some of them look around for anyone else and he realized, with a thrill of uncertainty and fear, that he had caught some of their attention.

He took a deep breath and marched over, ignoring just as Harry had done the whispers and shocked glances his way.

It was so surreal to look out at the students and see his former friends again in such a different context, so jarring to see their once smiling faces looking back at him with expressions ranging from hatred to confusion, and it hit him harder than he would have thought.

The fact that he had defected did not change the fact that he had grown up with these people, had lived with them, had loved them, had stayed with them during summers and had traded secrets, cards and candies on the trains and in their common rooms.

Crabbe and Goyle were looking at him furiously, their eyes clouded with violence and mouths set in matching frowns of abhorrence. Pansy Parkinson was looking at him fearfully, betrayal emanating off of her as she sat staring shamelessly, trembling in her seat.

Blaise Zabini was another kick to the gut, as Draco’s eyes met the brown eyes of the boy he once thought he would always love irrevocably. Blaise was staring back unblinkingly, his appraising expression disturbingly familiar. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

By way of answer, Draco’s gaze flickered from him to Harry, who was standing on the opposite end of the Great Hall, watching Draco anxiously.

Draco nodded once and returned his eyes back to Blaise, who gave no sign that he had understood other than a shift his features, the barest hint of a sad smile on his lips.

Draco pointedly focused instead on McGonagall, who had fallen silent.

“I am so sorry,” she was saying. “For you are, most of you, still children. Children I consider myself responsible for. The fact that you must go through all of this…" she choked off, shaking her head briskly and dabbing discreetly at her eyes. "I will never not be sorry.”

This was the most emotion that Draco had ever seen expressed by the professor, and the sadness and sincerity in her voice startled him.

“When I give the word,” she recovered, drawing herself back up to her full height, “Prefects will organize their Houses as quickly and orderly as possible and head to the evacuation point. It is _essential_ that all are accounted for—you do _not_ want to be responsible for a child left behind.”

The words were severe, and the somber atmosphere was changed as Ernie Macmillon stood up and shouted, “And what if we want to stay and fight?”

Some applauded these words, most of them from the Gryffindor table.

Draco looked at his fellow Slytherins, but only a few seemed ready and willing. Pansy was looking at her lap, petrified, and Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles threateningly, still glaring at Draco. Blaise was staring down at the table, looking like he was contemplating whether to have an orange or an apple with his breakfast.

“If you are of age, you may stay,” Professor McGonagall answered.

“Are we safe right now?” a little Hufflepuff girl called out, looking around fearfully.

McGonagall hesitated. “We have placed protection over the castle, and through this, we should be able to get you out as safely as possible—“

“I know that you are preparing to fight.”

Several people screamed, and Draco couldn’t blame them.

The horribly familiar voice of Voldemort was infiltrating the Great Hall, seeping from the walls and the chairs, his high, cold and cruel voice filling the ears and minds of terrified children and adults alike.

“Your efforts are futile,” Voldemort said calmly. “You cannot fight me.”

For a split second, Draco believed him.

“I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.”

Draco shuddered, nausea rising up and cold sweat forming on his forehead as he saw, quite vividly, Charity Burbage dead and spread out on his dining room table, where he had eaten Christmas Dinner every year since he could remember.

“Give me Harry Potter,” Voldemort commanded, and Draco’s eyes snapped over to the boy in question, a rush of panic mingling with his fear and trauma. “Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.”

Draco breathed deeply, rage simmering in his stomach.

Like _hell_.

“You have until midnight.”

Voldemort’s voice retracted its shadow and left a deafening silence in its wake, broken only by the whimpers of petrified children or heavy breathing of the adults.

Then, slowly and to Draco’s horror, every eye in the room went straight to Harry. Harry backed up as every head turned, every student and teacher and adult focused their attention on him. Draco was shaking his head as Pansy suddenly leapt to her feet, eyes wide and entire body shaking. She raised an arm and cried hysterically, “But he’s _there_! Potter’s _there_! Someone—someone grab him!”

And at the same time the entirety of the Gryffindor table stood in Harry’s defense, Draco’s vision whitened with fury and he thundered, “NO!”

The attention switched him Harry to him within milliseconds, but Draco paid them no mind.

Pansy was staring at him with that same desperate and fear-filled look in her eyes, chest heaving as her arm slowly lowered.

Draco drew his wand. There were hushed gasps throughout the room.

“If you even _try_ to touch Harry,” he threatened, not just to Pansy, but to them all—Slytherins, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Gryffindors and staff alike—“I will _kill_ you without hesitation.”

Another ringing silence met his words, but soon, to his astonishment, students began to face Pansy as he and the Gryffindors were doing, drawing their wands with him and standing in a silent but powerful defensive force, which seemed to do nothing but make Pansy quake harder.

Had Harry’s life not been on the line, Draco probably would have found it in him to pity her, to try and search for an understanding with his former friend, but as the circumstances stood, he could look at her with nothing but contempt.

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” McGonagall said, officially breaking the silence. Her voice held no semblance of apology or forgiveness, either. “You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow.”

Pansy dashed out after Filch, and the rest of the Slytherins slowly rose from their chairs.

“Wait,” Draco called out again, surveying the rest of his House. “Just listen.”

McGonagall looked at him curiously, and most of the Slytherin house had frozen in place to listen to him.

“You all know who I am,” Draco said, tensing in anticipation as he said so. “I am Draco Malfoy, traitor to the Dark Lord, rescuer of Harry Potter, and true-blooded Slytherin.”

There were some scoffs that met his words, and someone spat out “ _Bloodtraitor_!” in a hiss that could rival his Aunt Bellatix.

Others, however, leaned in further, their faces changing from fear and hurt to hope.

“If you want peace in this war,” Draco continued, “If you want to be able to live and love and laugh in a world of equality, not superiority, if you want to _stay_ and _fight_ —then come with me. If you want to prove what it means to be a Slytherin—follow me.”

The Hall seemed to be holding its breath as the Slytherins stared back at Draco incredulously.

Blaise Zabini was the first to move.

His chair scraped back against the stone floor, the only sound that echoed around the room, as he pushed it back with the back of his knees. Draco stared at him in amazement as Blaise walked slowly to stand next to him, his expression virtually unchanged.

“Draco Malfoy, you’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured, and Draco felt like laughing hysterically in sheer relief.

“Good,” was all Draco said.

Slowly but surely, the Slytherins filtered themselves out. The underage ones walked over to Pansy and Filch, along with Crabbe and Goyle and a few other seventh and sixth years, shooting glares and expressions of distaste or terror back at Blaise and Draco. The rest of them, about fifteen or twenty students, filed slowly towards Draco, some of them smiling gratefully and others staring around the hall challengingly, as if daring someone to comment.

Draco’s eyes flitted towards Harry, who was grinning proudly at him from across the Hall. Keeping his eyes locked with Draco’s, he slowly raised his hands and started to clap.

One by one, the rest of the Hogwarts students and faculty echoed Harry’s sentiment, clapping slowly at first, then increasing in tempo as the Hall seemed to erupt with cheers.

“VERY WELL!” McGonagall shouted, trying to get everyone back under control. They finally calmed, all considerably more emboldened by this show of unity. “Thank you, Slytherin House, for setting an example for us all. Ravenclaws, if you would lead those not fighting tonight out as well.”

The four tabled emptied quickly, Draco’s group of Slytherins soon joined by perhaps the same amount of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, but the Gryffindors had to be personally facilitated out the door, as most of the House had decided they were staying, regardless of how old they were.

Draco motioned for the Slytherins to follow him over to where Harry had walked past the Gryffindors. They met in the middle of the Hall, and the Slytherins watched their exchange with considerable interest.

“That was fantastic,” Harry said, grinning at him again. He seemed to be visibly restraining himself from a more exuberant show of his praise and gratitude, which made Draco smile.

“What about Ron and Hermione?” he asked, eyeing the clan of Weasleys. “Had anyone seen them?”

Harry’s smile slipped off his face as he shook his head. “No sign of either of them,” he answered. “We have to find them, before all this starts.”

Draco nodded and turned back to the Slytherins.

“Thank you all for your courage,” he said sincerely. “Go join the others fighting—good luck to all of you.”

They all left save Blaise, who remained by Draco’s side as he stared at Harry, who stared back uncomfortably.

“Thank you Zabini,” Harry said uncertainly. “Your actions are…very appreciated.”

Blaise nodded slightly, not looking like he had heard a word Harry had said.

“Draco has been waiting seven years for you,” he said, startling both Harry and Draco. “Please make that wait worthwhile.”

Harry’s mouth fell open as Draco was flooded with humiliation and astonishment, both of them staring after Blaise as he walked away without another word.

“I’m sorry about that,” Draco apologized immediately.

Harry shook his head. “I’ve dragged you into a war,” he said hoarsely, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“No, I kidnapped you on an impulse and dragged myself into a war,” he corrected. “Don’t start with the guilt again. There isn’t time—we’ve got to find Ron and Hermione.”

Harry looked at him for a moment before nodding quickly, the two of them rushing out of the Great Hall.

 

They hadn’t been running for ten minutes before the first big shock shook the castle.

Draco and Harry heard it rather than felt it, but they stopped and stuttered in their pace anyway as if the walls of their very corridor had shaken.

It was a rumble like thunder and then a sudden crack of lightning, followed almost immediately by the sound of an explosion.

“Do you think they broke through the barriers?” Draco asked breathlessly, and he saw his fear echoed in Harry’s expression.

“They couldn’t have,” he whispered. “It hasn’t been long enough!”

“What if they have?” Draco speculated, fear striking through him. “Harry—I’m sorry, we need to get the Horcrux!”

“But—“ Harry protested, looking over his shoulder as if Ron and Hermione would materialize behind him. “Then what? How do we even get rid of it without the Sword? Which is in Hermione’s bag, if you remember!”

“Harry, we can find them after!” Draco urged, and if Harry still looked unsure, the second explosion that racked the castle and sounded a lot closer than the first suddenly changed his mind.

He nodded and took off the opposite way, towards the seventh floor. The part of the castle they were in was relatively removed from the rest of it, devoid of any paintings or in-use classrooms.

As they got closer to the heart of the castle, however, signs of war began to appear. Shouts could be heart, directions being barked from professors and Order members, and groups of students sprinted past them, holding armfuls of strange magical objects and talking quickly to each other as they ran.

Even the portraits seemed to be doing their part, from providing moral support to screaming status updates to those passing them, which parts of the castle needed protecting.

They passed a secret passageway, Angelina Johnson standing with Fred and George at its entrance, wands drawn and at the ready.

Another shudder wracked the castle as Harry and Draco sprinted around yet another corner—and almost ran straight into Ron and Hermione.

Draco stumbled backwards, clutching his chest as Harry yelled in shock and relief.

Ron stood with a broomstick under one arm and both he and Hermione carried an armful of curved and yellowing objects that looked suspiciously like—

“Are those _fangs_?” he asked as Harry shouted, “Where the _hell_ have you been?”

“Chamber of Secrets,” Ron answered easily.

Draco blinked.

“Chamber— _what_?” Harry huffed, his breath coming unsteadily.

“It was Ron’s idea!” Hermione answered breathlessly, looking at him adoringly. “He—I said—it was _brilliant_ —“

Draco had never known Hermione to be so inarticulate.

She took a few gulps of air to steady herself, still grinning and clutching Ron.

“I was talking about how we needed a backup way to destroy the Horcruxes, in case the Sword—didn’t work out, in case we were separated—and he thought of it all by himself!” she explained, her eyes shining.

“Thought of _what_?” Harry asked.

Draco made the connection first.

“Basilisk fangs,” he said, his eyes falling to the objects in Ron and Hermione’s arms.

“Brilliant,” Harry said, sounding like someone had just hit him over the head. “So…”

“So we’re another Horcrux down,” Ron replied, pulling the remains of Hufflepuff’s cup from his shirt.

“Brilliant,” Harry said again.

Ron grinned—he looked just as pleased with himself as Hermione was of him.

“So what’s up?” he asked brightly.

Draco raised his eyebrows.

“A war,” he replied, and Ron’s face dropped.

“We heard— _his_ —voice,” he said darkly. “All the way in the chamber. Hermione reckons it reached Hogsmeade, too, we saw Aberforth and Madame Rosmerta—“

A horrible but distant scream sounded overhead as the ceiling shook, a sound of another explosion racking through the castle.

“We know where the diadem is,” Harry said hurriedly.

“It’s in the Room of Requirement, in the Room of Hidden Things. Where I was all last year,” Draco added.

“Thank God!” Hermione exclaimed, and they all set off at run down a flight of stairs, blocking out the sound of screaming and yelling and fighting coming from the front end of the castle.

“Also—“ Harry panted as they ran, “the last Horcrux—it’s his snake. Nagini. Saw it in a vision, he’s got it protected.”

“Perfect,” Ron puffed out, sounding grim.

They arrived at the stretch of wall that marked the Room of Requirement, but before Draco could command it into appearing into the Room they wanted, Ron’s voice protested sharply.

“Hang on!” he said. “We’ve forgotten someone!”

“Who?” asked Hermione, immediately looking worried.

“The house-elves! They’re in the kitchens!”

“You think we should get them fighting?” Draco asked dubiously.

“No,” Ron said seriously. “We need to get them out, tell someone to get them out, we can’t ask them to die for us—“

Ron’s words were cut off by a clatter of basilisk fangs as Hermione dropped all of them. To Draco’s shock, she practically jumped on Ron and kissed him fervently, flinging her arms around his neck.

Harry’s eyes widened as Ron dropped his fangs immediately and wrapped his arms around Hermione’s petite frame, hugging her against him in what looked like a desperate, bruising kiss.

“Is this the moment?” Harry asked weakly, and Draco had to agree with him.

The pair paid them no mind, however, even as more screams pierced the air and the castle shook around them. Draco had to admit that there was certainly something poetic in the harsh contrast—love and war, inevitably coming together once more. But mostly—

“OI!” Harry shouted. “There’s a _war_ going on here!”

At this, Ron and Hermione finally broke apart, dazed and red-faced, breathing heavily and swaying on the spot.

“Now or never, mate,” Ron said vaguely, bending down to pick up the basilisk fangs.

“Yeah,” Harry said, watching them with a slightly astounded look on his face.

The closest scream yet was what made them all turn around. They rushed to a banister and peered over, gasping in unison at what they saw.

The war had deteriorated greatly even in the minutes that they had been distracted—the castle was continually shaking now, students yelling and gathering and running, teachers trying to find order and preforming still more protective spells.

There were flashes of red and green light coming from the base of it all, and Draco even recognized some of the shouts that he had been hearing for almost two years now—the Death Eaters were now upon them.

“We’ve got to go,” Draco said urgently, dragging Harry away and back towards the wall. “Now.”

Harry nodded, looking grave.

Harry, Ron and Hermione waited as Draco paced in front of the wall.

_I need the place where everything is hidden_ , he thought, calmly and clearly, and the door materialized almost instantly for them.

Draco looked at his companions and opened the door, stepping into the room with little hesitation.

The dreadful noise of the battle was sucked out as the door shut behind Ron, who was the last one to enter. They were greeted by a total and old silence instead, the scene laid out in front of them horribly familiar to Draco.

Even though this palace of lost objects, with its books stacked to the ceiling and random objects of students long gone, had been a sort of sanctuary to him all of last year, Draco recalled his visits here with immense shame and fear.

He sensed that he was being watched and turned to find Harry observing him closely, as if Draco was likely to drop dead at any second.

“I’m fine,” he said curtly, jerking his head towards a row in between piles of stuff. “I think it’s this way, come on.”

They all moved silently through the different rows of objects, Draco calling out details as to what the diadem looked like, and what it would be resting on.

Suddenly, the path right in front of him began to look familiar. There, to his left, was the desk he once leaned against, reading a stolen library book by wandlight. In front of him was the largest book Draco had ever seen—half his height and twice his width, its contents filled with what Draco had discovered with surprise to be ancient Chinese magical erotica.

He motioned to Harry, who had been trailing behind him, to follow him more closely. The pair moved through the aisle until Draco finally saw it, holding up a hand to stop Harry.

There was an ugly battered cupboard resting snugly in between towers of books and boxes and on top of it sat a rather ugly bust of a rather ugly warlock wearing a frizzy and moth-eaten wig—but on top of that sat, at last, glinting prettily in the limited light of their wands, Ravenclaw’s diadem.

“There it is,” Harry breathed behind him, and Draco stretched out an arm.

“Hold it, Potter. _And_ Malfoy.”

Dread and exhaustion compelled him to not turn around, to pretend that victory was just a little bit closer than it seemed.

But he recognized the voices and he knew the intent immediately: turning around, he faced Crabbe and Goyle with his coldest expression.

“My old friends,” he sneered, automatically adopting a persona he had all but left behind. “How proud of yourselves you must feel.”

Both Crabbe and Goyle had their wands drawn and outstretched, Crabbe’s directed at Harry and Goyle’s at Draco. They wore matching grins of incompetence and evil—perhaps two of the most useless people under Voldemort’s command.

_But useful enough to catch you here_ , Draco reminded himself. _Deal with them quickly_.

“We’re not your _friends_ anymore, Malfoy,” Crabbe spat, and Goyle scowled and nodded.

“Shame,” replied Draco, his eyes narrowing as his anger flared. “I’ll miss your stimulating conversation.”

Goyle growled, and Crabbe’s grip tightened on his wand.

“Why are you here?” Harry asked slowly, watching them carefully. “Why not with Voldemort? Your _master_?”

Crabbe smirked in a way almost identical to Draco, except the expression was a lot uglier on Crabbe than it ever was on Draco.

“You stupid or something, Potter?” he asked, and Draco barely refrained from snorting. “The Dark Lord is attacking everyone for _you_. Didn’t you hear?”

“But you can’t kill me,” Harry said warningly. Crabbe rolled his eyes.

“I know _that_ ,” he said, as if it was a strange thing for Harry to doubt his intelligence. “Don’t see why though. Aren’t you dead no matter who kills you?”

Draco’s eyes darted anxiously to Harry, but his expression hadn’t changed.

“I wouldn’t kill me,” Harry said simply, still with the same hint of warning in his voice.

Crabbe chewed on the inside of his cheek as he considered Harry. Then he swung his wand unexpectedly over to Draco, causing Harry to inhale audibly and Draco himself to flinch.

“Said nothin’ bout him, though,” Crabbe muttered.

Draco stared at the two wands directed at him, slowly raising his hands.

“Are you sure you don’t have alternate orders for me?” he said, casting around wildly.

Goyle blinked in confusion, and Crabbe scowled.

“How’d you get in here, anyway?” Harry interrupted, his attempt to stall perhaps too obvious.

It seemed to work, however, as Crabbe directed his wand back at Harry, who had his own outstretched. The burly boy looked stupidly proud with himself, and he shared a grin with his companion.

“We followed you,” he said. “With a Diss-lusion Charm on. You were talking about a die-dum. What’s that?”

Before Draco or Harry could respond, Ron’s voice cut in, a call heard from the other side of the towering wall of stuff beside them.

“Harry? Malfoy? Are you guys talking to someone?”

In a show of reflex Draco would never have thought possible from him, Crabbe suddenly whipped his arm away from Harry to the wall that separated them and Ron, shouting “ _Descendo!_ ” as he did so.

Ron yelled as the wall began to crumble, deafening noises echoing around the room as objects crashed down the floor. Hermione screamed from somewhere farther away.

“Ron?!” Harry called wildly, and received an answering moan.

“’M alright…”

“Stop,” Draco commanded, not exactly sure what he thought this would accomplish.

“What’s going on?!” Ron called.

“Ron! Harry! Draco!” Hermione was yelling, her voice getting nearer.

“I can kill the Mudblood too,” Crabbe growled.

Panic welled in Draco’s throat and he yelled for Hermione to run at the same time Harry shouted, _“Stupefy!_ ”

The jet from Harry’s wand missed Crabbe by milliseconds as the boy dropped low, aiming a roared “ _Crucio_!” back at Harry.

Draco dove towards Harry, but he had already flung himself out of the way and the curse hit the stack behind them, throwing many objects in the air—including, Draco noted with a groan—the diadem.

It landed, immediately out of sight, in the new pile of fallen objects. Crabbe seemed a bit surprised at the damage he had inflicted and Draco used this distraction to cast a wordless hex at him, turning and running towards the pile.

“ _Stupefy_!” Hermione’s voice cried, and Crabbe and Goyle wheeled around as her Stunning spell whizzed by Goyle’s ear.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!” Goyle returned, and Hermione’s resulting scream as she crashed into the wall to avoid it was enough to bring Ron into the action.

He roared as he careened around the corner, shooting spells at both Crabbe and Goyle.

Draco finally reached the pile as Harry caught up with him.

“Find the diadem—it’s somewhere here—“ he instructed, kneeling beside Draco even as he cast his gaze over his shoulder.

Draco looked too—Crabbe and Goyle had taken off after Ron and Hermione, who seemed to be leading them away from Harry and Draco.

“I saw it fall, you go protect them, I’ll be fine,” Draco promised quickly, clasping one of Harry’s hands firmly for a moment.

Harry nodded and tore after Crabbe and Goyle, leaving Draco alone to search for the buried Diadem.

 

Halfway down the next aisle, Harry immediately knew that something was horribly wrong.

There weren’t any jets of light being thrown, no howled hexes or curses, just a strange roaring and a collective screaming. Harry skidded to a stop, looking around. A bright light seemed to be coming somewhere up ahead, flickering and crackling almost like—

“FIRE!” Ron screamed, as he suddenly appeared around the corner at the end of the aisle, dragging Hermione along with him as she fought to keep up with his pace.

Crabbe and Goyle were next, uncertainty and fear painted on their faces as they sprinted, all thoughts of killing Ron or Hermione driven from their mind.

Harry backed up as he comprehended what was happening. A giant fire, roaring and hissing and spitting chased after them, flames licking and billowing up around them. It was obviously enchanted—Harry had never seen fire quite like this.

“RUN, HARRY!” Hermione screamed, and his instincts kicked in.

_Draco_ , _get to Draco, tell Draco—_ his mind repeated Draco’s name over and over as Harry tore back the way he had come, sprinting around three aisles to find Draco kneeling in the same position he had left him in.

“DRACO!”

Draco turned around, expression too far away for Harry to make out whether or not he understood what was happening.

“DRACO, YOU HAVE TO RUN! THERE’S A FIRE—WE CAN’T STOP IT!” Harry bellowed, waiting until he saw Draco stand before taking off again.

Harry felt presence on either side of him and could see Ron from his periphery vision. The flames were louder than ever and seemed to be taking form—forms of horrible creatures making horrible sounds, intent on killing them all.

Crabbe and Goyle were noticeably absent. Something about this tingled in the back of Harry’s mind even through his panic, but he kept running until he found himself surrounded, both by piles of objects and horrible flames.

He looked around for a solution and realized, at the same moment he said it, what was missing—what was so wrong that Harry could scarcely believe it.

“Where’s Draco?” he whispered, even as his heart threatened to stop beating.

Hermione and Ron froze too, looking around wildly. Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth and Ron looked frozen for a moment.

“He—he—could have climbed—“ Harry was saying, barely noticing now the flames that threatened to end his life compared to the fact that they could have just ended Draco’s.

In his dizzying horror, Harry hardly registered Ron pressing something long and wooden into his hand. Only a scream from Hermione as a burning desk fell in front of him made him snap out of it—he looked down to find a heavy and outdated broomstick. Ron had one too—he ran back to Hermione and dragged her on, sitting behind them.

“LOOK FOR HIM, AND GET OUT! I’M TAKING HERMIONE!” he bellowed, and Harry nodded, wiping his paralyzing fear from his mind in order to mount his broom and take off, ascending past the reach of the flames to search desperately for any sign of Draco.

 

Draco seemed to be split into two forms of his own consciousness. His primary form, the one still processing the situation, was being watched by a second form, who had already accepted what was going to happen and was simply waiting patiently for the first one to catch up.

For example, Draco found he couldn’t move, and his secondary consciousness was worried that Draco himself was severely underestimating the situation.

_Can’t move my legs? I’ll just cut my legs off, then_ , he thought numbly, looking around him in awe.

He was not sure what had happened the moment he had touched the Horcrux, but he had known immediately something was wrong.

After finding it relatively quickly, he reached for it and closed a hand around its cool grasp and felt a shudder of strength go through him—not particularly comforting, he had registered immediately, but he had assumed it was due to the Horcrux’s enormous sinister power.

_Perhaps this is its defense_ , Draco thought now. _Immobilize those who touch you and you run a lot less of a risk of destruction._

Either way, Draco could not move. Which was a problem, yes, especially with Crabbe and Goyle intent on killing all of them—but no trickier a situation than any that they had succeeded in escaping from before.

That was, of course, before he realized someone had set off Fiendfyre.

He recognized the incantation immediately as either Crabbe or Goyle shouted it—Draco guessed Crabbe—and his insides turned to lead at the immediate screams from Ron and Hermione.

He looked up now, still frozen in place, and saw with a slowly dawning horror the mutated flames rise up in one of the rows beside him. It would reach him in mere minutes.

“DRACO!” Harry’s voice screamed, all the way from down the aisle.

As much as he was loathe to admit it, in that moment, Draco nearly called out for his help. He knew Harry would come to his aid without question—but at the same time, he knew that Harry would not leave his side even as the fire consumed them both.

So he simply turned his head, watching as Harry yelled his warning, telling Draco to run.

Draco stood, grateful he could at least die standing instead of awkwardly kneeling in front of dusty cabinets and books. Harry seemed to assume that meant Draco would rush after him, for the boy took off immediately.

And Draco registered for the first real time as Harry sprinted out of sight that he would die where he was standing.

He began to shake, the tremor starting in his hands until it reached his feet.

_Damnit, Draco_ , he reprimanded, as hysterical tears pricked at the back of his eyes. _Harry would want you to be stronger_.

“Harry wouldn’t want me dead,” he choked out, tears spilling over his eyes and bile rising up in his throat as his panic swelled to a maximum. The thought of Harry’s devastation was second only to Draco dying the first place, and Draco was assaulted by irrational amounts of guilt on top of his fear.

A shout was wrenched from his throat as he was blasted with heat, the walls on either side of him exploding into fire simultaneously. Draco stood, his eyes locked on to the trail of flame rushing and burning towards him—and then stopping.

Draco’s heaving breath caught, watching as the flames, instead of reaching him, expanded around a bubble, some sort of force field, that seemed to originate from—

“The Horcrux,” Draco whispered in amazement, staring at the diadem in his hands.

He had no idea what was happening. It was almost as if the diadem was trying to _protect_ him—but maybe it was just protecting itself, for if the diadem wanted him alive, it really would be helpful to be able to _move_.

Either way, Draco recognized quickly that his “protection” wouldn’t last. The flames had surrounded the force field by now and the strong and evil magic of it was weakening the fight of the Horcrux.

Draco was still going to die, and this thought repeated itself over and over and over and over in his head until he finally grasped the concept.

_I’m going to die_.

And then— _it’s about time. Couldn’t be happy for too long, could I?_

_Please. Please_ , he begged, to no one in particular, _please let him live. Let me die and let him live, let him live let himlivelet—_

“DRACO!”

_Fuck you._

Draco still looked up and gasped as if Merlin himself was descending upon him, when in reality it was just Harry, once again risking his life on a broom.

He saw Harry hesitate in astonishment when he saw the force field surrounding Draco, but dove into it with pinpoint accuracy, missing the flames entirely.

If anything, Draco knew this was his chance to say goodbye.

“Draco, thank _god_ ,” Harry gasped, dismounting and rushing up to Draco.

Draco shook his head.

“Harry, I can’t move.”

Harry stopped and blinked, his gaze traveling over his body once. “What?”

“The Horcrux. It’s—it won’t let me move. I have to stay here.”

“No you don’t, that doesn’t make sense,” Harry blurted immediately, trying to pry the Horcrux from Draco’s hands.

It didn’t spell Harry into the same position, though, just slipped through Harry’s fingers as if it were made of smoke.

Harry stared at it, uncomprehending, and it was with a wrench in his gut that Draco watched Harry come to a full understanding of what was going to happen.

“Dr—Draco,” Harry whispered, latching onto his arm. “You’re not going to die, let’s just think—“

“I am going to die, Potter,” Draco said, laughing shortly and shakily. “I am, but that’s okay—“

Harry’s eyes went wide with horror and desperation. The heat around them, making both of them sweat and almost blister, was suddenly too much to bear.

“No, we have time, you’re going to live, you’re going to live because I love you and not you too—“

“Just kiss me one last time, please…” Draco murmured, taking Harry’s face in his hands. Somehow the Horcrux let him do so—his feet were still rooted to the ground but his hands were mercifully free. At least, he thought that was what was happening. He knew this was it—the Horcrux’s shield was weakening, if the loud roar of the flames was anything to go by. With a rush of a dull horror, he realized the fire would close in on them soon…so he stopped Harry’s protests, his denial and his pain with his lips, kissing him desperately and lovingly and softly all at once, trying to put all of his feeling into this last kiss than he worried he had in his body.

Harry was sobbing, scrabbling at his arms and chest as he pulled on Draco, trying in vain to pull him away from the Horcrux.

“Draco— _please_ —“ he gasped, tightening Draco’s shirt in his hands. Draco shook his head, a rueful smile forming on his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and summoned whatever magic he could feel flowing the Horcrux to him to force Harry away, the magic hitting the other boy with a forceful jerk. The loss of contact broke Draco’s heart more than Harry’s screams and Harry was forced back, flailing wildly for some scrabble to hold onto. Ron descended upon him suddenly, face determined and full of grim understanding, and dragged a shocked and struggling Harry onto his broom. Ron gave Draco one last look, gratitude and regret and pain on his face. Draco nodded once, feeling his resolve flicker as the shield around him faltered.

Draco watched them fly away, Harry’s screaming and the cry of his name drowned out by the roar of the flames. The big double doors at the end of the room shut firmly, and Draco was alone, facing his own sacrificial death with a numb acceptance. He realized that was the last time Harry would ever see him—and the last time he would ever see Harry.

And as the shield broke and the flames coursed rapidly around him, on him, in him, he felt no pain.

His last thought was a sudden and blinding vision of light, of _Harry_ , of love, of sacrifice, and of the ultimate price of salvation.

He knew, to the ends of the earth and until the final second of his life, that he would have been willing to pay it again.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update!!! YEAH!  
> Although, I'm not sure how many of you want to keep reading given what happened last chapter...(I'm not sorry but I cried too)...but we're getting close to the end here.

Harry was screaming.

He was aware of Ron and Hermione restraining him but only just; he shook their worried arms off of him like they were no different from any Death Eater or Voldemort himself trying to capture him.

“DRACO!” he screamed again, as if the name would summon the boy that _wasn't dead—_ he flew at the sealed door and pounded his fists against it, feeling something in his hand break as he punched—

“Harry, Harry, please—stop, we’ve got to get out of here,” Hermione was whimpering, and he turned his face towards her.

“How do we get him back, Hermione?” Harry asked breathlessly. Hermione just looked at him and sobbed, shaking her head and pulling on his arm.

Harry dropped to his knees, yelling something—probably Draco’s name, but his own voice didn't sound like it could form words, so thick was the bubble of hysteria in his throat. Ron knelt down in front of him.

“Mate—Harry, I’m sorry—Death Eaters have broken in, we’ve got to move—“

“HE’S STILL IN THERE!” Harry roared, but Ron shook his head.

“Draco’s gone,” he said firmly, and Hermione cried harder, even as she tried to pull him out of the way.

“No,” Harry said.

Because it wasn’t true. Everything in Harry’s mind screamed against it even as the gaping maw in his chest and his ice cold blood and his staggering panic broke over into pure devastation and horror. His mind still protested against it.

His hands shook as he balled them into fists, flinching slightly at the dulled pain of a broken finger as he numbly let Ron and Hermione drag him away and into a nearby corridor.

_Draco will get out. Draco knows Dark Magic—he can put the fire out. Draco’s smart. He’ll walk through that door, and it’ll be okay. He’s not dead._

“It’s wrong,” he was saying, and Hermione was sobbing and throwing her arms around him as the three of them crouched in an empty corridor.

“ _Shh,_ Harry, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’ll all be okay,” she choked, turning her face into his neck.

_He’ll never hug you like this._

Harry gasped out at the thought, feeling pain throughout his body, in his lungs, as he registered the thought.

And then, without fully comprehending just yet exactly what he had lost, or exactly what had happened—not even yet accepting that the boy he’d been convinced he’d love forever was dead—Harry found the only thing he could do was cry.

 _Like a child_ , his mind chastised. _Like a brat who hasn’t been given what he wants._

People were dying. Dying all around him, all the time, and Harry wanted out.

“Is this my life, Hermione?” he moaned, “It’s always—it won’t ever stop!”

She sniffed and drew back, looking somehow fierce even through her trembling lips and watering eyes.

“Harry James Potter,” she whispered. “You have done this your _whole_ life. Suffered, lost and fought--you can’t give up now.”

Harry shook his head. “But Draco…” he trailed off, distracted by another stab to his chest as he said the name.

“Draco did not die for you to give up,” she declared, shaking him a bit. “Draco did not die so _you_ could!”

Harry’s breath caught, his mind narrowing to Hermione’s words.

His eyes swiveled to find hers, the agony he found in each beat of his heart distracted by her unwavering gaze.

“The snake,” Ron spoke now, his voice as firm as it had been when he dragged Harry away from the door. “That’s next. Don’t even think—we’ve _got to kill the snake._ ”

“This is his fault,” Harry realized suddenly, having forgotten in the horrified haze of the last few minutes that Draco’s death could in fact be directed back to one person—the same person who had now irreparably destroyed Harry’s life by ending Draco’s. “Voldemort’s. Why is it always…”

“We can end him,” Hermione cut in, her voice still hushed and determined. “We just need to know _where_ he is. Look inside him, Harry, find out where he is…”

Harry had to simply close his eyes, closing out the last tears that were still stubbornly attached to his bottom lashes.

He didn’t even feel fear.

And just like that, he was…observing Voldemort, standing there and twirling his wand in an isolated and somehow familiar room, paying little to no mind to the huddled figure in the corner.

Harry realized, surprised, that he still had his own consciousness. He did not feel what Voldemort was feeling—or if he did, it in no way replaced his own thoughts or emotions.

With another shock, followed immediately by another wave of grief, Harry recognized the figure crouched in the corner to be Lucius Malfoy.

“My Lord,” came Lucius’s voice, hoarse and shaking. He turned his face to Voldemort and revealed the many injuries he had sustained—no doubt at his Master’s hand. Harry realized with a burst of bitter pride that these were probably the result of Draco’s actions at the Manor. “My Lord…please…my son…”

 _HE’S DEAD_ , Harry suddenly wanted to scream. He wanted to fashion Draco’s sacrifice into a weapon and drive it into Lucius’s heart—into Voldemort’s, into anyone who had a hand in killing him.

Maybe even into his own.

_He’s dead. He’s dead. Draco’s dead—he’s dead._

“If your son is dead, Lucius, it is not my fault.” Voldemort responded coldly.

The reactionary anger was almost enough to bring Harry out of the vision—but he stayed for Voldemort’s next words, the pain they brought anchoring him to the situation.

“It is not my fault he decided to tie his alliances in with Harry Potter. Not my fault, but yours, Lucius, if you had ever taught him such a juvenile notion that _love conquers all._ Draco himself has seen how that has resolved itself in the past.” Voldemort continued, effectively silencing Lucius.

Voldemort turned to contemplate Hogwarts, which could be seen from a grimy window in the back of the room, illuminated by explosions and fire and spells, light killing and attacking on both sides.

“Aren’t—aren’t you afraid, my Lord, that Potter might die at any other hand but yours?” Lucius spoke again, and Harry could feel Voldemort’s irritation and impatience through his conscious. “Wouldn’t it be…forgive me…more… _prudent_ to call off this battle, enter the castle, and seek him yourself?”

“Do not pretend, Lucius,” Voldemort hissed viciously, and Lucius shrank back into the wall. “You only wish the battle to cease so that you may discover what has happened to your son.”

Harry ground his teeth.

“I ask you this, Lucius: If you were to discover that young Draco _had_ perished in the battle…what difference would it make? He is a blood traitor. He is aiding Harry Potter. He _loves_ Harry Potter,” Voldemort continued, and Harry felt as though he might throw up. “It may be a more useful state of mind for you to consider that, all things considered, you no longer have a son either way.”

Lucius said nothing, shaking slightly and face obscured.

“As for Harry Potter,” Voldemort mused, more to himself than to Lucius, “I do not need to seek him out. Before the night is out, Potter will have come to find me.”

 _Too fucking right_ , thought Harry, an inexplicable shiver wracking through him.

Voldemort held the Elder Wand delicately between his fingers, staring at it contemplatively. Harry could sense that something about it was deeply troubling him.

“Go and fetch Snape,” he commanded suddenly, and Lucius’s head snapped up.

“S-Snape, my Lord?”

“Snape. Now. I need him. There is a—service—I require of him. Go.”

Lucius stood immediately and stumbled out of the room, not shaking the curtain of silvery hair from his face once—a gesture that reminded Harry disturbingly and painfully of Draco’s longer hair—

He was snapped from his thoughts upon recognition of that same surge of protectiveness he had felt from Voldemort earlier, and saw Nagini, suspended in midair, encased in a sort of sphere of protective magic. If there was any doubt to Harry’s guess that Nagini was the last Horcrux, it was gone now.

“It is the only way, Nagini,” Voldemort whispered, as if the snake had tried to challenge his decision.

 

Harry was lurched quite violently out of the vision as he got an idea as to what exactly Voldemort needed Snape for. He also knew where he was—he clutched Hermione’s arm as she worried over him. He started, staring around him. It wasn’t just Hermione that startled him—it was the sudden appearance of the battle that Harry had really noticed for the first time.

Bangs and screams and flashes of light filled the air—there was a tang in the dusty wind blowing throughout the castle that tasted disturbingly of blood, heat and death—Harry had an urge to spit. Their corridor was still blessedly empty.

Harry pulled himself to his feet, overcome suddenly with a heavy sense of purpose. Maybe this is what it had taken for him to finally be ready to fearlessly walk up to Voldemort. Maybe Harry had to be damaged and twisted beyond repair to tear down the evil that had infected his life in the first life.

And with that thought, he was numb to his grief. There was only anger, there was only action, only vengeance.

“He’s in the Shrieking Shack. The snake’s with him. He needs Snape for something—I think he might to try to kill him, don’t know why—the snake is protected. I’m going now.”

Hermione gasped, pulling him back as Harry started forward.

“Harry, you’re not going to just walk in there!” she cried.

Harry just looked at her.

He had never felt anything like this and never thought he would—somehow, he had told himself that he was protected from this darkness that seemed to be an integral part of him now, this shadow on his heart that Voldemort had put there seventeen years ago.

And it was this part of himself, he realized, that he had been fighting. Fighting the urge when snarky comebacks to Dudley hadn’t been enough, when the Hat wanted to Sort him into Slytherin, when he had wanted instinctively to kill Sirius upon hearing the Ministry’s version of events and fighting it all fifth year when the visions had started to terrorize him. Fighting it every day of his life, and winning, because of what he had always thought was the light in him. He now recognized that it was only because of the light _outside_ of him that he had a fighting chance: because of Ron and Hermione, who seemed distant and disconnected from him now, because of Dumbledore, who had left him nothing more than a broken Snitch and an unrecognizable ghost, and because of Draco.

Draco’s sacrifice, and the way he had loved Harry, seemed to be all that was left of his light side.

“I’ll take the Cloak,” was the only thing Harry said.

“Mate, you’ve got the think for a minute—“ but Ron’s desperate argument was interrupted by sudden intruders into the corridor.

Two masked Death Eaters careened around the corner and almost fell on top of each other when they saw who they had come across.

“POTTER!” one yelled, but Hermione was too quick for both of them.

She whipped her wand at the both of them, a silver and barbed net of wire forming from the stream of light from her wand and crashing over both of them.

They screamed as the metal ropes sliced into their skin and the three of them ran down the corridor and into the heat of the fighting.

Immediately, Harry was accosted with a snarling and unmasked Death Eater—Travers, Harry realized, and punched him in the face without a thought, racing away as the man staggered backwards.

A sound like a cannon to Harry’s left made him spin on the spot, bringing his arms up beside him instinctively to try and hold Ron and Hermione back.

A blast of light and fire blew out the wall to their left, flinging stone and rubble over the crowd next to it.

Ron flung a Shield Charm over the three of them. Hermione screamed as a Death Eater grabbed her wrist, lunging for Harry. Her foot flew up to connect solidly with his groin as Ron shot a Knockback Jinx at him.

“We’re too recognizable!” Hermione said, looking around wildly. “Harry, put the Cloak on and go, never mind us—“

Harry barely heard her as he threw it around all of them, taking off in the direction of the entrance.

The next corridor was even more crowded—Harry recognized students, teachers and Death Eaters alike fighting for their life, portraits around them screaming.

He narrowly avoided bumping into Dean and Seamus, back to back as they dueled two opposite opponents, yelling to each other and to the Death Eaters they were fighting.

“We should do something!” Ron yelled, nobody paying the phantom shout any mind as it was lost amidst the other screams.

Harry knew he was probably right, but he couldn’t see how they could help everyone at once and there was no point in focusing on one particular person—so he shook his head brusquely and kept running. 

They reached the entrance hall due to Harry’s tunnel focus and blocking out any other distractions—they had a job to do, after all—but found that the Hogwarts grounds were just as terrifyingly busy as its interior.

Curses flew and people screamed and ran—students Harry vaguely recognized yelped in pain as they caught the side of hexes or landed on rocks, but there was no time to help any of them.

Flying over dark and uneven grass, the three of them dodged student, teacher and Death Eater alike as they ran towards the one patch of land everyone seemed to be wisely avoiding.

Well beyond eyesight of any potential enemy, they approached the Whomping Willow with caution.

“Do you think it’ll still know if it can’t see us?” Ron whispered.

Harry didn’t answer, barely listening as he threw the Cloak off of him and raised his wand.

 _“Immobulis!”_ he cast, motioning curtly for Ron and Hermione to follow him.

He did not see their exchanged look as they crossed to the opening near the roots.

 

The path was just as winding and twisted and haunted as it had been in Hermione’s third year, though she hadn’t expected it to change. She doubted anyone had been in it since that night with Pettigrew and Sirius, until now.

They had ditched the Cloak as soon as they were below ground, and Harry had set off at a brisk pace without so much as a backwards glance or single word to neither her nor Ron.

Ron had looked at her, obviously worried, but Hermione shook her head. They could not confront Harry about anything now—the time was too volatile.

About two minutes had passed since they began their silent trek towards the Shack, and with each second, the adrenaline and immediacy of the Battle slowly leeched from the three of them in an almost tangible way, though Harry, as far as Hermione could tell, was unchanged.

As for her, she could feel her heart beat heavier with each pump of blood to her body. She, too, mourned Draco, and was devastated for Harry and scared of his grief.

Not that she blamed him—by her estimate, it couldn’t have been more than half an hour since Draco’s death. No, Harry was blameless in the matter. What wrenched her heart and scared her more than anything is what Harry had to do tonight—a task he had building to his entire life—and Hermione was terrified she already knew how this loss would affect him.

“Harry,” she began tentatively, cursing at her own weak-sounding voice. Harry gave no indication that he heard her. “have you thought this through any more?”

His pace did not so much as slow, and he did not reply.

She pursed her lips, hating herself a little. She hated how she was being forced to treat him—like a child—but the situation had left her no other alternative. She had to appeal to Harry’s basic instincts or risk his grief-addled brain get them all killed. “Harry?”

“What exactly is there to think through?” Harry replied immediately, voice hard.  “We show up, we kill the snake. Then we kill him. If we can.”

“Mate, stop,” Ron said pleadingly. Harry did not stop. “Harry!”

Ron hurried to catch Harry’s arm to physically turn him around to face them.

Hermione bit back sudden tears, stifling a gasp at the same time.

Harry did not look like Harry. His eyes, usually such a vibrant green, were darkened to a forest green and hardened beyond recognition. His jaw was clenched and his expression was lifeless—he could be a stranger for all Hermione could tell.

He turned around to walk away again, and Hermione acted on instinct.

Whipping her wand out, she cast a silent Stunning Charm that hit Harry square in the back, ignoring his surprised cry and Ron’s shocked “ _Hermione!”_

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she said regretfully, walking over to where he had toppled to the earthy floor.

“What the _hell_ ,” Harry spat, face-down in the packed dirt.

“Ron, help me sit him up,” Hermione called, fixing him with a look that had Ron hurrying to help her.

They propped Harry back up against the walls of the tunnel, sinking down to his level as he glared mutinously at both of them.

“Harry, I’m sorry I had to do that, but I needed you to listen to what I had to say,” Hermione said determinedly, holding his gaze.

“Why.”

“Because,” Hermione answered, forcing herself to talk around the sudden lump in her throat. “You—you’re not yourself, Harry.”

“Draco,” was all Harry said, and Hermione’s heart twisted again as she saw the flash of agony spasm across his face.

“I know,” she said, nodding. “I know, Harry, I know. But Draco’s not the end of everything.”

“You’ve got us, mate,” Ron said heartily, his voice too loud and words too full but Hermione loved him for it anyway. “You’ve always got me, and Hermione, and my family, and Luna—“

“—And I know you love him,” Hermione cut in, flashing Ron a grateful smile. “I know you still love him, and I know your heart is still breaking.”

Harry’s face crumpled as he listened, and Hermione wordlessly removed the Stunning spell. Harry remained motionless.

“But you love us, too,” Hermione whispered, taking Harry’s hand and pulling it towards her. “You love me, and you love Ron, and we’re both _here_. We’re both still here and fighting, all of these people want you to win. Draco wanted you to win.”

“I’m going to win,” Harry said, automatically. “I’m going to kill him.”

Hermione shook her head. “Not like that. Not so full of rage you can’t see anything.”

“What am I supposed to do, Hermione?” Harry asked searchingly, his eyes roving her face. “I feel like I can't—“

“Go on without him,” Ron finished grimly, and Harry swallowed.

“You just keep breathing,” Hermione said simply. “You go forward. You fight. Be heartbroken, Harry. But still fight, just like you’re supposed to. You can mourn later, once you have your life back. And then you live it, just like he would have wanted you to.”

“Fuck, Hermione,” Harry hissed, expelling his breath through tight lips and turning his head away. “It’s gonna—I won’t be able to get over it. Not this one.”

“Yes, you will,” Ron said harshly. “You get over everything. And not just because you’re Harry Potter, but because you’re more than just a guy who sits at home and cries over his dead boyfriend—“

“ _Ronald_!” Hermione gasped, scandalized.

“—for years until he dies at forty. Harry, your life sucks,” Ron continued blatantly, and Hermione cast a worried glance towards Harry, who was staring at Ron in something akin to awe. “But so does everyone else’s life. And now you have a chance to change that. So do it for real, don’t just throw yourself into battle out of anger.”

Hermione held her breath as Harry continued to stare.

“How?” he whispered, his stoic expression melting away, hands dropping beside him to paw anxiously at the dirt beside him.

Hermione leaned forward and grabbed both of his hands in hers. “Focus on right now,” she answered. “The strength of what you’re feeling is good—it’s just an indication of how strong you are. Use that strength. Stand up and think clearly. Remember those who loved you and who still loves you.”

She felt another ache as Harry’s eyes met hers, the mania she had seen in them draining away and clarity returning to them.

He looked at her for a moment before swallowing and nodding, breathing deeply once.

The pain was clear and obvious on his face and in his body but he stood anyway, looking at Hermione and Ron as if he was seeing them there for the first time.

“We should still go see what Voldemort wants with Snape. And see if we can get the snake,” he said slowly.

Hermione nodded. “I think so too. But we’ve got to be careful: we haven’t planned this at all. If it’s not safe, we get out. We wait.”

“Maybe he’ll start fighting,” Ron offered, but Harry shook his head.

“He’s not going to fight. He’s waiting for something.”

“For you?” Hermione guessed, a cold feeling swirling in her abdomen.

Harry nodded grimly, something unrecognizable flashing in his eyes for a moment. “Come on.”

Nothing more was said and they walked down the rest of the tunnel in their resumed silence, both Ron and Hermione staying closer to Harry than they had previously been.

It was, Hermione supposed, just like it had been: the three of them, heavy with the sense of danger and foreboding, bonded by their friendship and their cause, on their way to get themselves nearly killed.

But it was wrong. Whether it was Harry’s grief that made the difference or the finality of what they were about to do, Hermione couldn’t have said, but she had the sense that it had more to do with Draco himself. Harry seemed incomplete now, like there was no one to balance him out.

She had never noticed it before, but he had always been lacking a certain element that could counteract the intensity of his own self like neither her nor Ron had ever really been able to.

She realized then that Draco’s mark on Harry was simply irrevocable, and it suddenly terrified her to think of how exactly his loss would damage him in the months and years to come.

 _Provided we all survive this_ , she thought, as the path began to slope upward and they all stopped to throw the Cloak over them, moving challengingly together up the hill and into the Shack.

As soon as they cleared the tunnel, Hermione had the immediate sense of vulnerability. Even though she knew they were invisible, she was suddenly and extremely aware that they could still be _heard_ , or felt or smelt—somehow, they were discoverable.

No such discovery took place, however, and they soon moved towards the muted voices they could hear in the room directly above them.

“I need to see,” Harry murmured, extinguishing his wandlight. “Stay here. I promise I’ll be careful.”

Hermione pursed her lips but nodded, pulling the Cloak off of her and Ron.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Ron whispered, trying to find Harry’s invisible form with his eyes.

There was no reply.

Regretting it already, Hermione moved back into the mouth of the tunnel, Ron at her side.

“Do you think we should have let him go alone?” Ron asked immediately, neither of them daring to talk in anything more than breathy whispers.

Hermione bit her lip and motioned for Ron to move back a bit. They traveled about ten feet back into the tunnel and sat down, Hermione casting Disillusionment Charms on them both.

“It was too risky for all three of us to try and move up together. It’s virtually silent up there,” she answered, her voice still hushed.

“ _Muffliato_ ,” Ron muttered, waving his wand quickly. All Hermione could see was a flash of brown and the vague outline of where Ron’s body was. “I guess.”

“He’ll be fine,” Hermione assured him, but she wasn’t sure that she meant it.

“Maybe,” Ron said. “I mean hell, maybe we’ll win. Maybe we all make it out alive. Then what?”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, the cold feeling returning.

“I mean we have to live our lives,” Ron said. “I mean…there’s you and me…”

Hermione blushed as Ron coughed.

“I was going to go back to Hogwarts,” Hermione confessed quietly. “Of course, it’ll be…”

She trailed off as Ron silently acknowledged what she was going to say. They both doubted Hogwarts would ever really be the same—damaged permanently, perhaps.

“But what about Harry?” Ron asked.

“He’ll get job offers as soon as the war’s over,” Hermione said grimly. “Any job he wants—right hand man to the Minister, I’d bet.”

“What about the actual Minister of Magic?”

Hermione laughed shortly. “Certainly they’ll be people calling for it. But they can’t do that. He’s not even of the legal age.”

“Yeah.”

Hermione looked down, feeling a spike of worry for her best friend. “People forget Harry’s just a boy.”

“He just watched his boyfriend die. He’s fighting a maniac that’s been trying to kill him for seventeen years. He hasn’t been a boy for a while.” Ron replied bitterly.

Hermione shook her head, even though she knew Ron couldn't see her. “We’re not supposed to be fighting. We’re supposed to be teenagers. Being stupid seventeen and eighteen year olds.”

Ron snorted humorlessly. “Are you actually campaigning for teenage stupidity?”

“I’m saying the option should be there,” Hermione said. “We’re being forced into adulthood.”

“And what happens when we’re allowed to have normal lives? We can finish school. Maybe we get a flat together, somewhere in London or wherever you want…” Ron asked, his voice morphing from harsh to soft. “But…does Harry come with us?”

Hermione fought down the happy fluttering of her heart as Ron talked about their future in favor of thinking about Harry.

“I don’t get it, ‘Mione,” Ron said into the silence. “Harry barely mentions Malfoy for a year, not after Dumbledore…and then he rescues Harry and disappears with him for weeks and then they’re in love and Malfoy is this new person? I mean, effectively, Harry’s only known Malfoy for, like, two months.”

“That doesn’t mean he loves him any less,” Hermione said immediately. “It doesn’t mean he’ll be any less heartbroken.”

“I guess.”

“Besides,” Hermione continued, smiling sadly into the darkness, “Harry’s loved Draco since sixth year.”

“They—what?” Ron yelped, alarmed.

“Think about it, Ronald,” Hermione said. “Harry stalked Draco obsessively…he’d think about him for _hours_ , remember when you would tell me about him and that damn map? He pinned Dobby and Kreacher on him, for Christ’s sake!”

“He thought Malfoy was up to something,” Ron said defensively. “And he was right.”

“He could tell Draco was in trouble,” Hermione corrected. “He was scared for him. He just didn’t recognize it. And Draco had always been able to get under Harry’s skin, like no one else could. But he loved Draco as soon as Draco really needed it. And I know how…unbelievably sentimental that sounds. But it’s what happened.”

“Merlin,” Ron breathed, shaking his head. “Fuck, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Hermione whispered. “And Draco—god, Draco had loved Harry for years. Since they met.”

And then they were silent again, horrified and devastated. They had lost so much tonight—who knew who else, besides Draco? Who else would break their hearts? Would break Harry’s heart?

“HERMIONE!”

Hermione jumped and gasped as she heard Harry yell her name.

“HERMIONE! RON! HURRY!”

 

Harry was absolutely shaken.

He hadn’t known what had made him do it—what had made him approach Snape instead of just leaving him to die—the man who had tormented him and his friends and murdered Dumbledore and who knew how many others surely deserved no more.

But he stared at the man who had (however unfairly) graded his essays and given him detention bleeding out on the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack, where he had almost died once before, and felt an urge to at least make his presence known.

He slipped out from under the Cloak and approached Snape, who immediately focused his black and fearful eyes on his.

“P—Potter,” he gasped, his name ending in a sort of gurgle as another spurt of blood poured from the snakebites and gashes in his jugular.

Harry kneeled down, wondering idly if he was supposed to staunch the bloodflow or something. But Snape was not indicating that Harry was supposed to try and save him, or even comfort him, or stay.

Snape seized the front of his robes and pulled him almost to his face—Harry fought the instinct to jerk away.

“Ta—take…take…it…take…it…”

Harry pulled back, blinking and shaking, to find that there was more than just blood draining from Snape’s body.

A silvery-blue substance Harry was very acquainted with was spilling from Snape’s eyes like tears, but Harry had no idea what do with them.

“HERMIONE!” he bellowed, his voice sounding panicky and urgent. “HERMIONE! RON! HURRY!”

Within seconds, he heard their footsteps on the stairs.

“HARRY!” Ron called.

“In here,” Harry answered, turning back to Snape. “Not yet, Snape, not yet—“

Hermione gasped in horror as she entered the room, rushing immediately to Harry’s side.

“Harry, we can’t save him,” she said quickly, searching Snape’s body.

“No, but I need—a vial, a flask—“

And Hermione saw the tears too, and with an intake of breath she seemed to understand. She Conjured a vial from thin air and handed it to Harry with hands shaking just as badly as his.

“What’s going on? What’s that?” Ron asked frantically, dropping to his knees beside Hermione. Snape didn’t so much as look his way, his eyes fixed as they were entirely on Harry.

“They’re—they’re memories,” Hermione explained, her words wobbly. “He’s trying to tell Harry something.”

They all froze as Snape spoke again, his grip on Harry’s robes loosening slightly as he searched for his eyes.

“Look…at…me…” he said, and Harry stared obediently back.

Their sights stayed connected for a mere second before Snape let out a last, hissing breath and his body relaxed its tension, his head lolling to the side and his hand falling from Harry’s robes to thud onto the floor.

Severus Snape was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so if it’s not already obvious, Harry has quite a darker mindset than he has had previously, and certainly more so than in his canon.  
> Call it OOC if you want, but I have a perfectly reasonable explanation to Harry’s suddenly Slytherin and…vengeful attitude, if you can’t reason why.
> 
> Keep reading and reviewing, I love getting comments and things. I hope you liked this onslaught of angst.  
> See you next week...


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the agonizing previous chapter...uh, here's another...

Harry barely had to process what had just happened before another voice rang out, chilling Harry to the core and making his heart race, fearful the owner had entered the room himself.

Voldemort’s voice was projecting itself onto the entirety of the Hogwarts grounds, and Harry could only dread what he had to say.

“You have fought,” Voldemort said, his cold voice prickling the back of Harry’s neck, “valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. But you have sustained—and I know this as an indisputable fact—heavy losses.”

Harry shut his eyes as grief and anger flared through him once more.

“If you continue to resist me,” Voldemort went on threateningly, “you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.”

 _A loss and a waste._ The words echoed through Harry’s mind as he tried to apply them to Draco’s death, and the last wrenching scream he had heard from him as Ron dragged him out of the fire. _Waste._

“Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.”

Silence for two beats.

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you.”

Harry’s head snapped up at the mention of his name, a surge of purpose thrumming through him that he didn’t dwell too much on.

“You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.”

Harry was shocked, automatically feeling a spiral of guilt and shame unfurl in his stomach.

“Harry, no,” Hermione whispered, both her and Ron shaking their heads frantically.

“I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.” Voldemort finished, and with a cold hiss, his voice retracted from the minds of every citizen on the grounds.

Harry sat there, stunned and terrified, the ultimatum Voldemort had presented him refusing to leave the front of his mind. The guilty and devastated part of him spoke up, calling for him to listen to Voldemort’s warning.

Draco’s death _was_ his fault. Harry had already known he would have to deal with that for the rest of his life. How many more would have to die before Harry accepted that maybe, _maybe_ , he just wasn’t meant to live?

“Don’t listen to him,” Ron said immediately, and Hermione nodded.

“We have an hour,” she said, swallowing nervously. “An hour—we can think of a plan, let’s just—let’s just go back to Hogwarts, let’s go to the castle…”

Harry was barely listening to her as they all stood up again.

Hermione didn’t bother concealing them with the Cloak, just gathered it in her hands as they made their way back down the stairs and into the tunnel.

“Harry,” she asked, once they had set off, nervously trying to see if Harry was affected by Voldemort’s message. “Why—why did Voldemort kill Snape?”

Harry blinked, shaking his head. “Um. It had something to do with the Elder Wand. He…uh, didn’t think it was working for him, and he realized that…well, he hadn’t exactly killed Dumbledore, had he? Obviously, Dumbledore was the previous master…and Voldemort wasn’t the one to kill him, Snape was. So the ownership had been passed on to Snape, not Voldemort.”

“So…so he’s really the master of the Elder Wand now,” Hermione concluded shakily, and Harry felt another stab of fear.

“No,” Harry whispered. “Not…not exactly. Because…because technically…Dumbledore had already been Disarmed by the time Snape and the rest of the Death Eaters found him.”

Hermione stopped walking, her face paling. “Oh…my God,” she breathed. “D-Draco—“

“Draco was the Master of the Elder Wand,” Harry supplied numbly, and Ron groaned.

“So—so what does that mean?” he asked, looking from Harry to Hermione. “Does that mean it’s been You-Know-Who’s since Malfoy—since the Fiendfyre?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said quietly, looking fearfully at the ground. “Since…since Draco died by sacrificing himself…it _could_ mean that…”

“That the line of ownership ended with him,” Harry finished. “That it’s impossible for Voldemort to own it because he can’t kill Draco.”

Hermione half sobbed, half laughed, staring at Harry sadly as tears spilled from her eyes.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, closing his eyes. “Merlin, Draco.”

“We—we should get going,” Ron said, sounding just as shocked as Harry and Hermione were. “To the castle. We only have an hour.”

They set off again, but Harry could not stop thinking about Draco and the Elder Wand. It was the only semblance of comfort he could think of: that even after he was dead, Draco was still finding ways to help them.

It took about ten minutes total to get from Snape’s body to the Whomping Willow, and Harry mentally subtracted this amount from their designated hour.

As they approached the castle, they all cringed and shuddered at the bundles of robes and bodies that littered the ground in front of the stone steps. Harry half expected a group of Death Eaters to jump out and yell something akin to “Just kidding!”, but no such thing happened.

In fact, the entire castle seemed eerily silent.

The three of them climbed the steps wordlessly, each individually absorbing the damage of the battle. Huge chunks of the Hogwarts’s facade were gone, slabs of fallen stone cracking the floor where they had landed. Glass and wood from the window were spread like diamonds on the stone and blood stained where they stood, some of it so fresh that it was still running across the surface.

The silence, however, was what really gave them all pause. Ringing throughout the mangled castle walls, the absolute quiet raised goosebumps on Harry’s neck and arms.

“Where is everyone?” Hermione asked, her voice hushed but still too loud.

“Great Hall, probably,” Ron answered, looking dazed. He led the way up the stairs and to the double doors.

They all stopped in the doorway, shocked still and silent again.

The familiar setup of the Hall was gone: all the tables, including the Staff table, were gone: replaced instead with a makeshift infirmary of Transfigured cots and beds—treating the severely injured at a frantic pace, aware of the time limit before everyone could move again. Groups of relatively uninjured survivors stood together and by the wounded, not saying much, some crying and some supportive.

The dead, the row of bodies that Harry could barely bring himself to look at out of guilt, lay neatly in the center of the room. Harry scanned it quickly and his heart went cold as he saw the Weasleys, standing huddled together around something—or someone—that was blocked from Harry’s view.

Hermione whimpered and clutched Ron’s arm as she saw it too, and he pulled her along as he staggered worldlessly towards his family.

Harry approached slowly behind him, heard Ron’s moan as his family moved to reveal the still body of Fred Weasley, lying with his eyes closed under his mother and his twin, both gripping him and sobbing into his chest which held no comforting heartbeat.

A roll of cold nausea hit Harry in the stomach and it crawled down his spine and wormed its way into his throat—he suddenly felt choked for air.

Hermione went to a shocked Ginny and took her in her arms, while Ron went to Percy, of all people, and threw an arm over his shoulder.

 _Your fault_ , a voice hissed in Harry’s ear as he simmered with shame and anger. _Draco…Fred…your fault…_

And then the world narrowed down to two bodies lying next to the Weasleys that Harry had not even considered until this moment: Lupin and Tonks, lying side by side under the ceiling of enchanted stars, looking for all the world as if they had decided to lie down and sleep not five minutes previous.

“No,” Harry said, to no one in particular. Tonks had just given birth—the woman lying next to Lupin was not pregnant—they had a newborn baby left with who knows who? And—who was supposed to take care of him? He would be another baby, orphaned by war, just as he was…

 _And it’s your fault_ , the voice said again. They were barely married—only had been for less than a year, only been happy for less than that, they were both so miserable for so long…

_And it’s your fault._

Harry had the instinct to run—to get as far away from everything as he could—but he had no idea where to go. Funnily enough, he had the idea that no one there would exactly notice his disappearance immediately, as caught up as they were in the deaths and suffering that all weighed on his conscious.

Then he remembered the vial in his pocket.

Turning on his heel, he fled back out of the Hall and towards the stone gargoyles that he had only ever known to mark Dumbledore’s office.

He reached the familiar and imposing gargoyle statue, who stared at him suspiciously as if it were no other day at Hogwarts and Harry was nothing more than a student there, like there was no war and this was not a matter of life and death.

“Password?” it asked haughtily, and Harry could think of nothing to say besides, “Dumbledore!”

The gargoyle slid aside to Harry’s astonishment, and revealed the spiral staircase Harry had not seen in a year. He sprinted up the staircase and saw, with more surprise, the stone basin of the Pensive already sitting out for him. Had Snape put that there?

Without thinking about it, without even remotely trying to guess what he would see, Harry yanked the vial from his pocket and dumped its contents into the basin, diving in as if the memories would provide him something other than answers.

* * *

 

 _Heaven_ , was his first thought as his eyes fluttered open and his breath returned to him and he was blinded by light.

But his heart was heavy—and he would doubtlessly not be reunited with Harry—so maybe death was not as sweetly forgiving as the Muggles would like to believe.

Draco Malfoy pulled himself up, feeling oddly refreshed but with absolutely no idea where he was.

He wasn’t in the Room of Requirement, which was where he _definitely_ remembered dying.

He… _had_ died, hadn’t he? He certainly had intended to.

Oh—he was naked.

Startled, Draco blinked.

So—okay, he existed, that’s what that meant? The fact that he could see his toes and his slightly turned-in knees and everything else—he was there, physically, wherever “there” was.

 _Oh fuck_ , Draco thought, his heart beating faster with panic—oh, look, heartbeat— _what if this is a coma?_

What if he had simply retracted into his own consciousness? Rendered unresponsive by the smoke or shock or lack of oxygen, was he still standing, unaware, in the burning Room?

Was this the final stage before true death?

But he recalled the brief pain of the fire—when the shield _had_ collapsed and he remembered a surreal moment of terror as the flames rushed up to him, he had screamed out of instinct even through his strangely calm mindset and it had _hurt_ for all of a second before he—

Died?

Pursing his lips, Draco looked down again at his naked body, wishing he had clothes. He could never think well naked.

As soon as the thought formed in his mind, a set of robes appeared at his feet, plain but luxurious, and Draco slipped them on gratefully.

Maybe he _was_ in the Room of Requirement. Maybe it had reverted back to its original form when it was destroyed. What if it had restored Draco as well? What if—

“I wonder if you weren’t better suited for Ravenclaw,” a sudden and unfamiliar voice mused.

Draco whirled around, fleetingly thankful that he had dressed, to face a tall and elegant woman, clad in medieval blue robes, brown and gray hair swept up neatly around her beautifully aged face in a way that rather reminded Draco of his own mother.

The woman seemed vaguely familiar, but the name Draco came up with was so preposterous that he dismissed it immediately—but as soon as he had, he saw the woman’s eyebrows shoot up in question.

Could she read his mind?

The woman smiled.

“Are you—“ Draco spoke haltingly, strangely afraid of being incorrect. “Are you…Rowena Ravenclaw?”

The woman’s eyes twinkled as she inclined her head.

“That’s very impressive, Mister Malfoy.”

“Just two and two,” Draco responded easily, pleased at the praise.

Ravenclaw laughed. “Reason does not come as naturally to everyone,” she reminded him, somewhat mournfully.

Draco’s lips quirked up, but then he thought of Harry, always stubbornly obsessed with action and his glacially slow deduction skills when confronted with surprise or personal conflict—his smile faltered, heart aching as he wondered how long it would be until he would see him again. How old he will be—Draco at once hoped to see both a frightfully old man and to see him now—how he will have changed, who will arrive with him, who else he will have loved—

Draco turned away suddenly, feeling the sting of tears and thinking that it was distinctly unfair. Whoever had thought that awareness after death was something to be desired? To know what you have lost, what you’ll never see again, how much pain you’ve caused—

“Will it always hurt like this?” he whispered, feeling the first tear slip down his face.

“Draco,” Ravenclaw said gently, gliding over and placing a hand on his shoulder, “where is your reasoning now? You are not dead.”

Draco turned in surprise, hearing the words much more relieving than hoping they were true. He absently wiped the wetness from his face. “I’m not dead?”

She smiled again and shook her head.

“Oh.” Draco processed this. “Am I alive?”

Ravenclaw looked at him approvingly. “Very good. No, I don’t suppose you are.”

Draco sighed, starting to feel irritated. “I don’t like riddles.”

“You’re not supposed to like this place.”

Draco sighed again. “What is this place?”

“An in-between,” Ravenclaw answered readily. “A place between life and death.”

“Am I stuck here?” Draco asked, suddenly extremely worried. Was this it, for eternity? Having student-teacher conversations with the spirit of Rowena Ravenclaw?

“No, you’re not stuck here,” she answered.

“How did I _get_ here?”

“That,” Ravenclaw said, “involves some extraordinarily complicated magic. But I believe you’ll be able to understand.”

Draco said nothing, waiting for her to explain.

“I do not know Tom Riddle,” Ravenclaw said. “Lord Voldemort’s reign of terror is not of my time. But a man’s urge and desire for immortality was born with this Earth. The magic of the Horcrux is nothing alien to me.”

“So this has something to do with the Horcrux.”

Ravenclaw nodded. “You are alive, I’m afraid, plainly out of coincidence. Had it been Hufflepuff’s cup in that Room, you might have perished. Or perhaps you would have escaped—I do not know. What made my diadem different are the ancient protection spells I had already imbedded in its magic.”

“I’m trying not to criticize your magic, since it obviously worked, but I thought it was trying to kill me,” Draco confessed, a bit haughtily.

Ravenclaw looked sad. “Its magic was warped by Tom Riddle,” she said bitterly. “He molested it with his evil. The magic I had infused in it was confused. It was now sharing its properties with the magic of the Horcrux. Eventually, my protective spells had all but diminished in the face of Voldemort’s magic, but not completely. In short, because it really is quite complicated, the good magic embedded within the Horcrux recognized your noble intentions.”

“How?” Draco asked, not wanting to show how much that answer startled him.

Ravenclaw smiled her irritatingly knowing smile. “All Horcruxes have some level of sentience,” she replied. “The piece of Voldemort’s soul knew you wanted to destroy it, so it tried to render you incapable of doing so.”

“By restricting my movement,” Draco supplied.

Ravenclaw pursed her lips. “Whether that was the defense of the Horcrux or the warped protection of the diadem I do not know.”

“What does it matter?” Draco asked, turning away. He did not dare ask the woman what happened next, for fear of what she would answer.

“It matters because, Horcrux or not, the diadem recognized your good intentions. Your purity, your nobility. It tried to preserve you for just that. Your—forgive me—your love for Harry Potter, I imagine, had influenced its magic quite a lot.” Ravenclaw told him gently, laying a hand once again on his shoulder.

“That—can magic really do that?” Draco asked doubtfully.

She smiled. “My magic can.”

He looked at her before sighing again, flicking his eyes down to the white ground he was on. Suddenly, the question he’d been dreading asking came to the forefront of his mind and refused to leave, demanding answers.

“Can I see him? Ever again?” he blurted, watching nervously as Ravenclaw turned her head to look at something Draco couldn’t see, drawing her answer out in what Draco assumed was an attempt to make him fear the worst.

“I am not the right one for that conversation,” she answered softly, turning back to him.

He looked at her, confused, until she simply vanished—as mysteriously as she had come—and Draco wondered how she ever had normal conversations.

He had little time to dwell on what he had just been told, however, before he noticed another figure approaching him through the slight fog that had accumulated since he had awoken. It was almost as though the place was slipping away from him.

The figure drew closer and closer until Draco could recognize him—the realization sent him staggering back in shock.

“S—Severus!”

“Draco.”

Draco was struck with horror as he realized what that could mean—the fact that Snape was here, with him, and Ravenclaw, all people who should be dead—he stepped back, looking the perfectly unscathed headmaster up and down. He certainly didn’t _look_ dead, but then again, neither had Ravenclaw, and she had been dead for centuries.

“Are—are you—“ Draco eventually managed, and saw Snape’s expression relax into something akin to pity.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” was all Draco could think to say.

He felt like crying. He also knew he should not.

“Draco,” Snape began, looking at him hesitantly, “I have many things to explain to you. But I fear you will not trust me on any of them, or heed any advice I may give you, until you know everything.”

“Everything about what?” Draco shot back, feeling a spike of irritation. “What’s been kept from me?”

“It had to be kept from you,” Snape assured him. “It was kept from everyone. Until now, the only people who knew are dead.”

“And who was that?” Draco sniffed, trying not to pout.

“Dumbledore and myself,” Snape answered. “Now, however, I shall open that information to both you and Harry Potter—who, if he followed my instructions—is learning everything as we speak.”

“Harry,” Draco repeated automatically, with little purpose other than to keep him in his mind.

Snape nodded. “I will discuss Potter shortly. Right now, however, I should begin by telling you that I have not been faithful to the Dark Lord for eighteen years.”

Draco blinked, this statement the last thing he was expecting. “You—what?”

Snape simply nodded again.

“But—I was there! You passed information to You-Know-Who for years! About the Order, about Harry—how could you have been disloyal?” Draco protested, hardly daring to believe what Snape had said.

“I was—how do you say—a double agent,” Snape answered. “Everything I told the Dark Lord was pre-approved by Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore…” Draco said faintly, trying to make sense of it all. “But then—you were in the Order!”

“Yes, I was,” Snape said. “I was working for the Order while working for the Dark Lord, for years. The secrecy of my duplicity was of the upmost importance—I was the only safety net, at times, between the two…organizations.”

“That’s why Dumbledore had you under his protection,” Draco guessed.

“Yes,” Snape replied.

“You bastard,” Draco whispered, anger suddenly boiling under his skin. “How could— _do you know how much I needed that_?”

Snape blinked and leaned back, startled. “Draco, what are you talking about?”

“I lived my life for two years not knowing if I would live to see the next morning,” Draco spat, glaring at Snape, furious at having this unknown opportunity taken away from him. “Not knowing if Voldemort would suddenly decide my family wasn’t worth his time, that _I_ wasn’t worth his time. How could have you not protected me? You, of all people, knew of my hesitance to serve in the first place—“

“Draco, foolishness is not a good look on you,” Snape cut in harshly, his eyes flashing. “Don’t be a child. Of course I couldn’t have put you in that position—it was _entirely_ too dangerous. And if you remember—I _did_ try to help you, all of your sixth year, but you resisted each of my advances! By the time you would have even accepted my help, there was no help to be given. Dumbledore was dead.”

“But….” Draco protested again, anger fading to give way to misunderstanding. “Why? Why did you do it?”

Snape’s eyes flickered and his mouth turned down, as if greeted by an old and unpleasant memory. “That,” he said, “is where Harry Potter comes into it.”

Draco let out a breath, confused and stunned and tingling with anxiety and uncertainty. “How.”

“Before his mother was Lily Potter,” Snape answered unexpectedly, “she was Lily Evans. And that…is how I first knew her.”

Draco blinked slowly, realizing with a nudge of discomfort where Snape could be heading.

“I met her before we even went to Hogwarts,” Snape said. “She was a muggle-born, but we lived in the same neighborhood. It soon became apparent to me that this girl was a witch, and I decided I wanted to befriend her.”

“Okay…”

“So I told her as much.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “You went right up to a girl and told her she was a witch?”

“…Yes.”

Draco snorted. “Claps for you.”

“Quite,” Snape sniffed. “Of course, she rejected the idea at first—both her and her sister—but Lily, fortunately, was a much kinder soul than Petunia. She made friends with me, accepted the fact of her magic, especially after I showed her what I could do with mine.

“I spent the next two years or so telling her all about Hogwarts and the Wizarding world, much to the dismay of her sister. She was jealous: of our friendship, our connection, and, when the time came, our magic. Our world. This didn’t make Lily very happy, but I didn’t care much about Petunia. To me, she was just another Muggle, one that made Lily sad.”

“How gallant of you,” Draco drawled, somewhat aware that he normally would never speak to Snape like this.

Snape shot him a look before continuing. “As we were arriving to Hogwarts, Lily and I ran into another first year on the train: James Potter. He was being—as he always was—arrogant, and loud. Lily thought so too.”

“But she married him.”

Snape closed his eyes. “The impressions we make at the tender age of eleven do not always hold for life,” he answered. “You should know that better than anyone.”

Draco dropped his stare, feeling slightly ashamed of his “first impressions” even these long years after.

“But yes,” Snape went on, softer and sadder, “she did marry him.”

“You were in love with her,” Draco guessed, not sure why the notion disturbed him so much.

Snape didn’t answer.

“That’s why you were…protecting Harry,” Draco spoke into the silence again. “Last remains of her.”

“I owed…a debt. To Lily… _and_ to James. Lily and I…we fell apart. She couldn’t tolerate my acquaintances, nor my interests.”

“You mean you had a sudden fascination with dark magic and creepy friends,” Draco amended, still not sure what his aversion to Snape’s story was.

Snape’s nostrils flared. “No matter what happened, no matter what I said or did, I never stopped loving Lily Evans.”

“But Lily _Potter_ …”

“Lily Potter didn’t exist to me,” Snape interrupted harshly. “By the time her and James had married I was…I was working for the Dark Lord. Working my way up in the ranks. We were all desperate for his approval.”

A sick feeling wormed its way into Draco’s gut. “What did you do, Severus?” he asked slowly.

Snape was silent for a moment before speaking, staring at something Draco couldn’t see.

“Have you ever doubted the abilities of Professor Trelawney, Draco?” he said finally, and Draco blinked, thrown again.

“Yes,” he answered simply.

“Even though it does not seem like it—and do not take this to mean her daily ominous predictions hold any merit—Professor Trelawney is, in fact, a true Seer. She has made true predictions only a handful of times, and one of them happened to shape the outcome of the first war.” Snape explained calmly, and Draco’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“What—how?”

Snape sighed, his eyes fluttering closed in shame. “Had I not been there, it may have come to little avail.”

“She made the prediction to you?”

“I was listening outside of the door. She was with Dumbledore, in a room, when I heard her—predict something. About the Dark Lord, and his…his downfall.”

Draco’s gut twisted with dread as his eyes widened. “About Harry.”

“I had no idea he would go for them,” Snape whispered, eyes still shut. “The prophecy spoke only of a boy born at the end of July—I hadn’t any idea that Lily was even pregnant.”

Draco was silent.

“I begged him to spare her,” Snape continued. “I pleaded, without any thought to my own reputation—“

“Again with your gallantry,” Draco interrupted. “Did you plead for Harry? Or James?”

Snape broke off, looking at him with a suddenly unreadable expression.

“There is no doubt,” he said eventually, “that anything I have done was done out of anything other than love for Lily Evans.”

Draco exhaled. “I believe you.”

“Why did you defect, then, if not for Potter?” Snape’s tone was almost challenging.

Anger flared in Draco’s chest. “It wasn’t all for Harry,” he insisted. “I had doubted my father’s philosophies for years. I was hesitant to even take the Mark—I didn’t change sides because I wanted to be Harry Potter’s _boyfriend_ , I changed sides because Harry made me see that it didn’t have to be the way it was. That it could be so much better, that there could be so much less fear and so much more peace…and I wanted that.”

Snape settled for watching Draco again as the boy came to his conclusion, waiting until he had calmed down before speaking.

“Well,” he said evasively, “are you not Harry Potter’s boyfriend?”

Draco snorted, the surprise humor succeeding in dissipating the lingering anger and irritation towards Snape. He realized, with a rush of sadness and regret, that holding onto any grudges towards his imperfect former guardian wouldn’t do him any good.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “How long do you have to be dead for the title of ‘boyfriend’ to expire?”

“You are not dead,” Snape replied immediately. “You will even be with Harry again, if you choose to.”

Staggering relief and a smudge of confusion hit Draco all at once as he absorbed this information. “I will?”

Snape nodded.

Suddenly, Draco’s insides froze. “Is—is he going to die?”

Snape stared back, unblinking. “Yes.”

Draco shook his head. “You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can,” Snape said. “Potter is the final Horcrux.”

Draco’s eyes snapped to Snape. “Is that…some metaphor? Because I realize that, being dead, you might have a lot of time on your hands but I’m not quite there yet so I still consider myself pressed for time—“

“Does Potter ever tell you to _please_ stop talking?” Snape cut in, sighing heavily.

Draco shut his mouth.

“When the Dark Lord was destroyed that October night,” Snape began, “his body was obliterated but he wasn’t _dead_ —a piece of his soul remained intact. Part of it latched itself to the only other living thing in that house.”

“Harry,” Draco supplied, and Snape nodded.

“This, of course, explains their rather unfortunate connection throughout the years,” Snape continued. “Explains the visions, the feelings, Harry’s Parseltongue ability, all of it.”

“But—but in order to kill a Horcrux—it needs to be—I mean, you have to—“ Draco stammered, panic rising in his throat.

“Destroy it,” Snape finished flatly, and Draco felt like he might throw up.

“What…what does that mean? Does he get to come back, does he wake up here?” Draco demanded, running a hand through his soft and clean hair, messing the strands up greatly so they fell even more in front of his face.

“I do not know how the Horcrux will ultimately affect his life,” Snape answered. “It could kill him, it could maim him. It will bring him here, however. Of that, I am certain, even if he is forced to move on.”

“You said I could be with him if I choose,” Draco said slowly, a cold trickle of realization running down his spine. “What does that mean?”

“It means, simply, that you have a choice in what happens next,” Snape replied. “From here, being half-dead and half-alive, you have access to both the physical and, er, metaphysical realms. You may choose to return to the physical or move on to the next stage—where I come from.”

“Okay,” Draco said, barely registering anything Snape was saying.

“This choice persists,” Snape continued, “no matter whether Potter is able to accompany you or not.”

* * *

 

Harry was kneeling next to the stone basin, unable to feel anything but shock and understanding.

His entire life seemed to replay with a clarity it had not contained before: everything from his war within himself to his connection to Voldemort was explained in a way he had always craved: his doubt erased, and he was left with one last, simple task.

That was fine. Objectively, that should be fine. Hadn’t he been tense with that expectation for the better part of a decade?

But it was one thing, he thought as he slowly got to his feet, to expect to die in combat, fighting for him and his friends. It was quite another to willingly walk towards an extended wand.

How many would he leave behind? How many would mourn him? How could he justify adding to the already inexpressible losses of the night?

 _Because you’re saving the world, that’s why_ , Harry thought. _All you are is an obstacle in the way of this war finally ending._

After all of this—this stubbornness on his part, his resistance to Voldemort and his desperate attempts to claim his own life for his own—he still turned out to be nothing but Voldemort’s weapon.

Well, if the only thing he could do was turn Voldemort’s own weapon against him, Harry supposed he could finally rationalize his own seemingly random existence.

 _And Draco_.

Maybe he could see Draco.

As much as Harry had been close to death before, he had hardly had time except for a brief period after Sirius’s death to think much about the possibility of an afterlife. He assumed there was some semblance of _something_ , if only because the ghosts had to have some sort of alternative.

And this afterlife, utopia or not, Harry wondered if he could meet Draco there. He stood in Dumbledore’s old office and comforted himself with thoughts of happiness with Draco in this life after death, thinking of it idly and as if his breath wasn’t coming harder and his heart wasn’t pounding blood through his body and he was so _alive_ , in these last minutes of his life.

The hour, he supposed, was almost up. He had to go now, to minimize the damage as much as possible.

He would go to Voldemort in the Forest, close his eyes and stand firm, and his job would finally be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW WONDERFUL AM I?  
> Leave me a comment to tell me exactly how much!  
> No, I'm kidding. But still comment.  
> And yes, I had this planned all along.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCK THIS CHAPTER.  
> Okay yes this is three weeks late. Sue me. This took forever and it's so short I'm so sorry it's not even 5k but IT IS HERE IT IS NOT PROOFREAD AND I AM SO TIRED.  
> @jesus why

Harry was both exhausted and terrified as he stood alone in complete silence, feeling exposed as he stared around at the darkness and the paleness of the trees. The eeriness of the mist curling around his feet did not help with his mindset and he contemplated what exactly to do next.

He was still under the Cloak. He had told himself, in throwing it on, that he was only using it for the sake of getting out of the castle unnoticed and unapproached.

He could now see no reason for keeping it on, but he was finding it nearly impossible to take off.

His hands were clenched around the fabric that still covered him completely when alone, ready to pull, but his arms seemed stiff and heavy, his fingers unwieldy.

There was no one there; he could hear no voices and could see no figures moving. Not even wind rustled the leaves on the branches that were mostly shrouded in the dark, making everything seem like time had forgotten to progress.

But still he stood there, invisible, hyper aware of each passing second as time ticked closer and closer to the end his allotted hour.

Of course, even though he knew he could never do it, the urge to run away, to take Aberforth’s ill-considered advice and leave, wait it out in a cave somewhere—to leave the Wizarding World behind him and start something completely new—was stronger than ever. Miserable life though it would be, it was a _life_ , something Harry suddenly seemed to value very highly.

Just as it was about to end.

He felt as though he should spend a moment or two just appreciating the world he was about to leave, but he couldn’t quite find it in him to consider the beauty of the stars and the moon when Draco had burned and Lupin and Tonks had left their child parentless and Fred had left his family and his twin…

So he concentrated on the one beautiful thing that would always be beautiful: the ones that had loved him. Each and every person fighting for him was brave, and glorious.

How many minutes did he have left?

Seconds?

Harry opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them.

_The close_.

Harry narrowly avoiding gasping out loud as the thought occurred to him, his memory flashing back to months before.

_  
“To Harry James Potter, I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.”_

_“Snitches have flesh memories.”_

_“The Snitch I caught in my first Quidditch match…don’t you remember?”_

_I open at the close._

 

Was this is it? Was this ‘the close’?

If it wasn’t, Harry couldn’t think of anything else it could possibly be.

Reaching into the pouch Hagrid had given him for his seventeeth birthday, almost a year earlier, he retrieved the small sphere and looked at it for a moment, heart beating faster with anticipation.

He brought the cool metal to his lips and whispered, “I am about to die.”

Immediately, he felt the metal slide against his lips as the shell opened in an almost mechanical way, revealing a small compartment inside that housed an even smaller stone, looking perfectly harmless and innocent nestled inside.

A strange mix of dread and peace washed through him then: if there was any uncertainty left as to whether or not Harry was supposed to die, this was the final confirmation.

With shaking fingers, Harry extracted the Resurrection Stone from the Snitch, letting the outer shell fall to the ground at his feet. He laid it flat in his palm, understanding what it was there for.

It was not to be used as others had used it before him: it was not a call from death to bring into the living, but rather a call from the living to bring into the dead.

Harry was to be guided into death, surrounded by the people he had loved and lost.

It was a comfort, if nothing else.

Turning it thrice in his hand, he watched with little surprise but with an onslaught of emotion as the figures of Sirius, Lupin, and his parents.

He looked, stunned, upon each of them, and how happy they looked. He had never seen any of them as happy as they were then, nor as healthy. It filled him with relief and sadness at the same time, to know that only in death could they have ever been truly whole again.

He found his eyes roaming from Lupin and Sirius to his parents, the two of which he could only remember one other encounter with in his entire life.

His mother stepped forward first, her face shining with tears and a smile and more real to Harry than she had ever been before.

“You’ve been so brave,” she managed, her voice sweet and warm and wavering. She brought a shaking hand up to his face, letting her fingers trail lightly over his cheekbone, the first touch between mother and son in sixteen years. “Braver than—braver than I ever hoped you would need.”

Harry had an absurd urge to say ‘thank you’, or something equally awkward and ridiculous, but swallowed past his discomfort and looked his mother in the eyes.

“I’m scared,” he said, trying not to think about how this was the first thing he had ever said to them. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it.”

Lily’s eyes filled with sadness. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. But you will. Of course you will.”

“And we’ll be there. The whole time,” James spoke, stepping forward to join his wife. “Right there until the very end.”

“What if I can’t do it?”

“You will,” James promised. “You’re a Potter. You absolutely can.”

“Nothing you ever do could disappoint us,” Lily assured him.

Harry’s lips twitched involuntarily, feeling an urge to both laugh hysterically and burst into tears. “I fell in love with Lucius Malfoy’s son?” he tried weakly, absently brushing away sudden tears.

A startled burst of laugher came from Lupin, as Sirius buried his face in his hands, his parents’ faces identical masks of shock.

“Forgot to bring that up,” Lupin said nervously, smiling at Harry and rubbing his neck.

“Say it isn’t so,” Sirius groaned, clutching Lupin’s arm, and James still looked astounded.

“Well,” his mother asked delicately, “is he a nice boy?”

“ _NO!_ ” Sirius cried, and Harry laughed, a bit louder than was necessary or even strictly safe, but the warmth and security and nostalgia in his chest threatened to overtake him.

“He’s…he was…very nice,” Harry replied, the smile slipping away. “When he wanted to be.”

Lily’s lips parted in understanding as Harry heard Lupin suck in a breath.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he said gravely, and his father closed his eyes and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Harry whispered, smiling grimly around, and they all lasped into silence, staring at one another.

Being with them was painful but he loved it, and it eased the pressure in his lungs and the lead in his veins, eased all forces trying to tie him to the Earth.

“Does—“ Harry asked haltingly, feeling dim but pressing on—“Does it hurt?”

“Dying?” Sirius clarified, smiling assuredly. “Not at all. Quicker and easier than falling asleep.”

“Just—slightly more permanently,” Lupin added, and Harry snorted.

“It’s time, Harry,” his mother whispered, making Harry’s heart speed up and his hands shake, but he nodded anyway.

“I know.”

 

His hour was up, and for some reason, he found himself walking assuredly towards the center of the circle, somehow knowing exactly where Voldemort was.

He found the clearing with little difficulty, coming soon upon the circle of Death Eaters sitting or standing by firelight, looking battered and nervous as they stared up at their leader.

Voldemort’s back was to Harry, but it couldn’t have made a difference what way he was facing as long as Harry stayed under the Invisibility. He clenched the Resurrection Stone tighter in his hand to fortify his courage: there was no way he could abandon his task as the eyes of the family he was hardly allowed to have were trained on him.

“The hour’s up, my Lord,” Yaxely said nervously, emerging from the trees on the other side of the clearing. “Potter’s nowhere in the woods.”

All of the Death Eaters focused on Voldemort, some eager and some scared, trying to see how their master was absorbing the news.

An exhale of relief caught Harry’s attention: with a rush of dread and horror he caught sight of Hagrid, bound to a large oak a few feet away from the inner circle. He looked mostly unharmed and unapologetic, shrinking back as far as he could from Voldemort.

“I…had not expected this,” Voldemort said, his cold voice unusually reserved. “I had expected him to come.”

The Death Eaters seemed to hold their breath collectively, awaiting his reaction. Bellatrix looked fit to burst, staring at him longingly from her position at his feet, lips moving soundlessly as she prepared to speak.

Harry’s heart seemed to stop as his hands shook harder than ever—dropping the Stone to the ground, he tugged numbly at the Cloak until it fell from his body, but still hidden in the shadows.

“I was…it seems…mistaken,” Voldemort continued, in the same tone, disappointment and frustration radiating from him.

Exhaling deeply and trying to stop the frantic pounding of his heart, Harry stowed his wand away and stepped forward, into the firelight, barely noticing as every shocked gaze swung towards him.

“You weren’t.”

Were those his last words?

Voldemort stiffened before turning slowly around, tension zapping into the small space between them as Voldemort’s astounded red eyes turned onto him.

“NO! HARRY! NO!” Hagrid roared, struggling with his bonds as he kicked the ground, eyes bugging out of his head.

An absent flick of Voldemort’s wand and Hagrid was silenced and immobilized. Harry could barely look at Hagrid as his eyes followed Voldemort’s wand.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort finally spoke, his voice awed and hushed. “The Boy…Who Lived.”

Harry clenched his hands into a fist to keep them from shaking harder. Every instinct in his body was telling him to run, to reach for his wand, to say something, but a bigger part of him still was demanding he stay still, that he do this one thing to end it all.

He saw Voldemort’s wand raise and his eyes fell shut almost of their own accord.

_Fuck_ , he thought, _it could have been so much worse._

* * *

 

His heart was still pounding.

That was the first thing he noticed as he regained awareness—that his heart was still beating out the same frantic rhythm against his ribcage that it was in the clearing with Voldemort, right as he had died.

Except—he wasn’t in the clearing anymore. And he certainly didn’t feel dead.

He opened his eyes, and the second thing he noticed is that he was without glasses. He brought a hand up to his face to check, but he found his perfect vision unaided by the wire frames he had kept his entire life.

And the third thing he noticed was that he had absolutely no idea where he actually was, which was quickly followed up by the fourth thing he noticed, which was that he was completely naked.

Hoping desperately that he was alone, he stood up, and assessed his surroundings.

This was death, then, he supposed, looking around the white and misty space. Seemed incredibly boring so far.

Harry shivered, marveling quickly at the fact that he was still able to get cold. He didn’t dare think what that might mean.

Just as he crossed his arms over his bare chest, a set of robes appeared at his feet. He blinked, mildly surprised, and slipped them on quickly.

Was this all the afterlife was? A blank space that caters to your own personal convenience?

Or did this mean that someone was coming?

“Harry.”

Harry’s curiously still-beating heart froze in his chest as whatever this new world was seemed to fall away from his feet. He was left floating there, suspended by tension between hope and fear as he turned around, his throat seeming to close up, his air pulled from his throat as he took in the sight of Draco, unscathed and soft and real and _there_ , touchable and smiling like Harry never thought he would be again, and Harry could barely form a coherent thought of his own, never mind make any sound other than a sort of choked gurgle as he willed his feet to move.

His heart aching with relief, he stumbled towards Draco and Draco stepped towards him, looking like he was holding his breath. Suddenly, Harry stopped short, aware this could all be an apparition or some sort of fantasy, but his only instinct was to grab hold of Draco and follow him anywhere, so he’d never be wrenched away from him again. Draco stopped as well, seeing this, and for a surreal second they just stared at each other, blanking on what to even think.

“I’m—“ Draco got out, stepping back suddenly and shutting down completely, eyes screwing shut and breath expelling in a shudder, “I’m _so sorry_ —“

“Draco,” Harry said, through numb lips, and finally ran at him, closing the distance between them in a matter of milliseconds. He collided with the other boy with a gasp, marveling in an instant at the feel of Draco’s physical form—responsive, and grabbing, and gasping—he was _there,_ he was _real_ , with Harry—

“I’m sorry, Harry, I’m so sorry,” Draco was repeating over and over, wrapping his arms around Harry and tugging him closer, and Harry couldn't even begin to comprehend what he could possibly mean.

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Harry said, because he felt like he should at least say it to someone, twining his arms to encircle Draco’s entire body, one around his waist and another curling around his neck, bringing their bodies as close as they could possibly be. “I love you,” he said, because now that he was here again, how could he not say this with every breath he was given? “I love you.”

Draco tried to pull away but Harry just held tighter, waiting until he was again used to the feel of Draco’s hair under his fingertips and the bruising hand on his back. Draco tried again to put some distance between them, but the slightest inch of separation and the rush of air between him and Draco only served to make Harry more and more anxious, as if Draco were being taken away from him again.

“For the love of—“ Draco huffed, quite breathlessly, sounding dazed. “Okay. Okay. It’s all okay now, see, we’re both fine.”

Harry breathed deeply as Draco stopped his struggling and just relaxed his arms around Harry, exhaling so that his breath blew back some of Harry’s hair, tickling his scalp and sending shivers down his nerves.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Harry whispered, both of them unsure as to what exactly he was referring to.

“Harry,” Draco said, almost reverently. “I do love you too.”

Harry’s short laugh was almost hysterical, so starved he was for endorphins, burying his head deeper into Draco’s neck. “God, yeah, I know that.”

“Harry,” Draco said again, a bit more urgently, “will you let me kiss you now, you git?”

Harry blinked. “Oh.”

This time, he let Draco draw back, his arms coming to rest on Harry’s hips as he ducked in quickly, catching Harry’s bottom lip in his and making Harry’s breath hitch, his heart stammering in his chest in a way that reminded him of a first kiss of sorts, brain suddenly aching with oxygen deprivation.

Draco hummed, low in his throat, and his grip on Harry’s hips tightened and pulled closer, and Harry gasped into Draco’s mouth as he lurched up closer, instinctively entangling their tongues together with a practice that had Harry’s entire body pulsing with the rush of his blood and the beat of his heart—and it wasn’t even arousal that had his body thrumming with this electricity, though there was that too—it was the sheer relief and disbelief that he could _do_ this, after the worst hours of Harry’s life, the hours that felt like years.

Harry, surprisingly, pulled away first, overcome with the need to _see_ Draco again, to make sure he was still there.

And he _was_ , looking down at him with love and worry and relief all mixed into one expression, perfectly unblemished face morphed with emotion.

The astonishment slowly bled from Draco’s eyes as he scanned Harry once more, his face falling.

“I thought I’d be more upset about you dying,” Draco admitted sheepishly, “but I’m just glad you’re here for now.”

“It doesn’t seem like we’re dead,” Harry replied, not exactly stepping away from Draco but moving his attention to his surroundings.

 

Draco blinked as his heart beast faster. He avoided Harry’s eye as he shrugged. “Maybe we’re not. I don’t really know.”

Harry looked at him in alarm. “You don’t know anything either? You’ve just been here, alone and clueless, since the Room?”

“Mostly,” Draco lied. “I looked around…”

“Did you find anything out?”

Draco looked down at Harry, who was staring anxiously at him, trying to figure out what to say. He couldn’t, as much as he would like, tell Harry the truth of the state of his being for fear that he would again be separated from Harry.

Knowing from Snape that he could either go “On”, wherever that was, or return to his mortal life was trivial information compared to not knowing whether or not Harry had that same option. Harry, if he knew what Draco did, would undoubtedly make him return to his life regardless of whether Harry could go with him.

“Do _you_ know anything?” Draco asked, avoiding the question and swallowing past his guilt and deception.

Harry shook his head, seemingly unsuspecting. “No. Well—maybe you’ll be able to help.”

“With what?”

“ _How_ I died,” Harry answered, and Draco tried to keep his face blank.

“How you _maybe_ died,” he corrected, and Harry snorted.

“Right. Well. It was—I guess some part of me always knew, though…” Harry began, looking at Draco apologetically. He took a deep breath.

“I let Voldemort kill me.”

Draco felt his heart stutter and his mouth fell slightly open, this admission completely unexpected.

He had known, of course, that Harry was the last Horcrux—but this fact, of how exactly he died, was even more horrifying.

“You—killed yourself,” Draco repeated blankly, and Harry shook his head.

“No, Voldemort killed me,” Harry replied thoughtfully, as though it was important to note the difference. “I just let him.”

“Oh,” Draco said, not knowing what else to say. He sighed and tightened his arms, still unwilling to let Harry go.

“I was the last Horcrux,” Harry said, sounding suddenly angry. “The night Voldemort died, he—his soul…kind of mixed…with mine. Corrupted it.”

“Merlin,” Draco breathed, rubbing circles with his thumb over Harry’s spine, trying to bring him comfort.

“All this time tracking those damn things down, all that time spent trying to kill him, and I’m the final obstacle,” Harry finished, shaking his head, looking faintly disgusted.

“Who even needs that kind of poetic justice?” Draco asked rhetorically, echoing his sentiment.

“Voldemort, apparently,” Harry answered drily.

A spasm of fear shot through Draco at the name as another thought occurred to him.

 “Harry,” Draco asked delicately, “Did you—is he—“

Harry sighed. “No. There’s still the snake.”

“Fuck,” Draco groaned, finally dropping his arms from Harry.

“How do we get out of here, Draco?” Harry asked, his eyes going wide with worry, and Draco felt guilt rising in his stomach again.

He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, another voice interrupted him.

“I believe I may be of assistance in regards to that.”

Both Draco and Harry whipped around to face the voice that had spoken, fear and shame filling Draco immediately.

Dumbledore walked towards them calmly, smiling sadly and looking healthier than Draco had ever seen him.

“Professor,” Draco heard Harry say, his voice thick with emotion.

“Harry,” Dumbledore replied warmly, spreading his arms widely. “You _incredible_ boy.”

Draco, for once in his life, found him resolutely agreeing with Dumbledore.

As if Dumbledore had read his thoughts, his eyes swiveled towards Draco, slowing his approach as he did so.

Draco was not surprised that the Headmaster was _here_ —if Snape and Ravenclaw could be here, why not Dumbledore too? He was shocked, however, to find the warmth in Dumbledore’s eyes directed at _him_ , as in individual, something Draco felt he couldn’t deserve.

“Hello, Professor Dumbledore,” Draco said nervously, wanting to glance at Harry beside him for support but forcing himself to keep eye contact.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore replied pleasantly, his smile flickering. “May I call you Draco?”

“I—um,“ Draco stuttered, thrown off even further by the unexpected question. “I—suppose so…”

Dumbledore looked around at them both, and especially at Harry, who was still looking too stunned to form a sentence.

“Let us walk,” he suggested, raising his eyebrows and turning away, setting off at a slow pace.

Harry moved automatically and Draco followed, feeling a sudden urge to just go to sleep.

The former headmaster led them to three seats that seemed to have materialized there for them specifically.

Dumbledore sat down comfortably while Harry blindly groped for his seat, his eyes moving back and forth from Draco to Dumbledore.

Draco’s knees hit soft fabric and he fell back, collapsing in the winged armchair and resisting the urge to pass out.

“So—we're dead, then,” Harry said thickly, and Draco swung his focus back to him.

Dumbledore blinked. “What makes you say that?”

Draco snorted, causing his companion’s eyes to snap to him. “Probably the Killing Curse Voldemort cast?”

Dumbledore tilted his head forward slightly, peering at Draco over the top of his spectacles.

“Yes,” he said simply, but Draco felt the implications run thick under his words. “I could see how he would interpret that.”

Draco dropped his gaze away. Of course Dumbledore would know what he was hiding from Harry—but couldn’t he see that it wouldn’t matter, once Draco knew where Harry could go?

“Can I just ask if we’re dead and get a straight answer?” Harry asked suddenly, and Draco bit back a smile at his sardonicism.

Dumbledore bowed his head, smiling sadly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me…some old men just think they have all the time in the world. To answer your question, however,” he paused and looked at them both for a moment, trying to signify he was serious, “you are not dead.”

The relief that hit Draco was astounding. He had already known, of course, that this fact applied to him, but to know Harry shared his same options seemed almost like a gift.

He looked over at Harry, who was staring at Dumbledore like he didn’t exactly believe him.

“We’re not?” he clarified, blinking.

“No, you’re not,” Dumbledore repeated calmly.

Harry looked at Draco, who realized he probably didn’t look as astounded as he should.

“Well, that’s good,” he said mildly, wishing Dumbledore would hurry up so he could talk to Harry alone.

“So we go back now,” Harry asked, though his inflection implied it wasn’t really a question.

Dumbledore smiled, at Draco in particular. “If you wish.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked immediately, standing. “Don’t I have to?”

“No,” Dumbledore answered. “Both you and Draco have a say in what happens next.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked again. Draco tensed, sensing Harry’s growing agitation. “What choices do we have?”

Dumbledore looked to Draco, as if inviting him to comment.

“We’re not really alive,” Draco supplied, glancing at Harry. “We’re not dead, but we’re not yet living.”

“How—you knew?” Harry asked, his voice turning accusatory. “You said you didn’t!”

“Harry,” Draco rose as well, trying to placate him. “I had a reason.”

“’Course you did,” Harry shot back, folding his arms.

“Harry, you sound exceedingly childish,” Dumbledore snapped suddenly from in between them, silencing them both.

Draco was shocked and immediately on the defensive, even though Dumbledore had spoken in his favor.

Harry recovered first, scowling at Dumbledore with a rebellious sort of practice. “Professor—“

“If you would view Draco’s statement with perspective and objectivity, perhaps you could make sense of it,” Dumbledore explained, his voice calm and meditative once more.

Harry stared at Dumbledore for another furious moment before forcibly relaxing. He turned to Draco and raised his eyebrows, waiting expectantly for Draco to explain.

Draco’s eyes darted to Dumbledore once more, wishing for a moment of privacy. He had a lot he obviously needed to say, and he would rather not say it in front of anyone else, least of all his former headmaster (and attempted murder victim).

Seeming to get the hint, Dumbledore rose. “I shall return in a moment,” was all he said, as he smiled at the both and left quickly.

Though privacy _was_ preferable, the ensuing silence between them stretched on for a few seconds before Draco could even begin to get out what he needed to say.

Harry was still staring at him, eyes narrowed, obviously trying to force Draco to speak first.

Draco cleared his throat obligingly, trying to recall his brilliant explanation from not sixty seconds earlier.

“I didn’t know,” he began stiffly, “if you were dead.”

Harry blinked, the anger vanishing from his face and arms dropping to his sides. “What?”

“Snape had visited me earlier.”

“Snape?”

“Oh—right,” Draco said, elaborating. “He’s dead. Not like us-dead, but actually dead—“

“No, I—um,” Harry interrupted, frowning apologetically, “I know. I kind of saw it happen.”

That hit Draco unexpectedly hard, riling up unexplained anger immediately.

“Oh,” Draco said shortly. “Of course you did.”

“What do you mean?” Harry demanded.

“I _mean_ that of _course_ it was you. _You_ were the one to see him in his final moments, someone who—who—never even— _liked_ him, never even knew who he _was_ —“

“I knew who he was!” Harry protested.

Draco scoffed. “Typical of you, really, to assume you have the right impression of everyone!”

Harry looked hurt all of a sudden, taking a step back. “How can you say that?”

Draco watched him warily, trying to realize what he had said.

“The fact that we’re even here together disproves that,” Harry explained quietly, searching Draco’s face for recognition.

“Oh,” was all Draco said.

And silence fell once again.

“I want to hug you, or something,” Harry expressed awkwardly, his eyebrows coming together as if he was disappointed by his own ineloquence.

“Yeah,” Draco replied, stepping forward.

Harry immediately pulled him closer, enveloping him in a tight hug that said more than Harry was really capable of at the moment.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know if I could come back with you,” Draco finally said, his cheek resting against Harry’s temple.

All Draco heard from Harry was a hitch in his breathing pattern, followed by Harry’s arms tightening around his body.

“We’re hugging a lot today, aren’t we?” Draco murmured.

“I thought you were dead, can you blame me?” came Harry’s slightly muffled reply.

Draco opened his mouth but hesitated, choosing his next words carefully.

“We could go on, you know. Together.”

“Could we?” Harry echoed thoughtfully.

“Theoretically.”

“Hm.”

Silence again, before Draco spoke.

“It could all end for us. Right now. No more dying, our entire future safe and secure.”

“But fake.”

“It’d be real in a way.”

“Not in the right way.”

Draco pressed a kiss to the side of Harry’s head.

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOHOO!!!!!  
> ONE. MORE. CHAPTER. TO. GO.  
> And then an epilogue! Because we all love those (well....except when they just break us...)  
> BUT you'll have to wait a long time. Maybe even a month, because on Friday I leave for China for three weeks without access to my computer.  
> So if any of you are in China...look for me I guess  
> (no but actually does anyone live in Zheng Zhou????)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it!

For someone regaining consciousness in the middle of a circle of Death Eaters, Harry was deliriously relieved.

 _Draco is alive,_ he thought, reveling in the feel and sound of his thundering heartbeat. _I’m alive, and so is Draco. We’re both alive. Draco is alive._

“My…my Lord?”

Harry’s attention snapped to the voice at hand, though it was obviously not addressing him. It was Bellatrix’s voice, and her breathy and almost indecent whisper was filled with relief and reverence.

A large stirring went around the circle as people began to realize that Voldemort seemed to be alive, cloaks rustling as people stood and rushed over, muttered questions and gasps filling the space.

The euphoria in Harry’s mind finally dimmed to a point where he was able to recognize that dying _hurts._ Well, maybe dying didn’t, but resurrection sure as hell did. His body ached like the worst fever he’d ever had, each breath pulling at sore lungs. He wanted to move and stretch his limbs because he felt as though they had been still for years, but didn’t dare risk even a slight twitch of his finger.

Voldemort and his Death Eaters had to believe he had died. His immunity was gone, and Voldemort still had one last shield erected in defense. Harry could see it in his mind, one of the last things he had noticed before he died: that huge and horrible snake, coiled in the magical cage Harry knew Voldemort couldn’t part with.

“ _My Lord_ …” Bellatrix continued, sounding close to tears, and Harry resisted the urge to try and see what was happening.

“ _Enough_ ,” Voldemort’s voice hissed, silencing her and everyone around them. “What happened? Where is Harry Potter? _What has become of the boy_?”

Immediately, Harry heard footsteps and cloaks swish and scurry against the earth as they broke their formation, all of the attention in the clearing now focused on him. Fear trickled through Harry from his scalp and down to his feet as he tried to quiet his quickening heartbeat, certain that someone would be able to hear it.

“Is he dead?” Voldemort whispered, sounding hesitant and strained, as if his breath were suspended, dependent upon the answer to his question.

Silence remained in the clearing, everyone watching Harry, waiting to see if he would twitch or breathe or jump up unharmed, wand at the ready.

When there was no answer, Voldemort exhaled a hiss of a breath and seemed to pull himself to his feet.

“You!” he suddenly commanded, and there was a gasp and a short yelp of a woman as hands slapped against heavy robes. “Examine him. Tell us if he lives.”

Footsteps staggered towards Harry and he held his breath, desperately willing his heart to stop slamming against his ribcage.

A worried breath pattern was exhaled against his neck and long, vaguely sweet-smelling hair fell in a curtain around them.

“Draco,” the voice breathed, and Harry almost gasped in shock at the voice of Narcissa Malfoy. “My son—is he with your people? Is he safe?”

He understood immediately Narcissa’s position. No longer on anybody’s side but her family’s, she had only one concern: getting out alive with her son. She would not say anything as long as Harry provided her with an answer.

And Harry wanted to jump up and scream out the answer. He wanted to stand in front of Voldemort and tell him personally, he wanted to write in the sky.

Instead, barely moving his mouth, he parted his lips and breathed out the answer that made his heart almost burst.

_“Yes.”_

Breath returned to Draco slowly, filling up his lungs slowly and easily. Life was returning to him in increments, and he could feel all of it as awareness returned to his mind. He sucked in a new breath and opened his eyes, the stone inside the Room of Requirement slightly charred and ash falling like snow from the ceiling and piles of ruined relics, dusting his hair and clothes and staining his skin.

He sat up, feeling light instead of heavy, a feeling in his heart and his mind he had never experienced there before, like something akin to exoneration.

The purpose he had gained when he had rescued Harry had not faded, but strengthened, settling into his bones and weighing there as something more permanent than death could ever be, something he felt would stay with him now until the stones of the castle he died in eroded into the earth.

He felt like he had evolved somehow, born from the fire a new man with a new sense of direction. It was no longer just to protect Harry, as it had been in the beginning, or an uncertain sense that something was wrong with his family and their society, as it had been in his teenage years.

His obsessive sense of self-preservation was dimmed, outshone by a fierce need to protect what was good in the world. At first, that had meant to him only his parents and his friends, and then Harry, and then finally all those he had seen fight to survive and for some semblance of justice for those whose home had been ripped away from them.

Harry, whose life had been ruined before he could even control what happened to him, understood the pain that prejudice and oppression inflict on innocent people. Hermione, who had been told by a world she thought she belonged to that she was not welcome, understood the unfairness of a life where fighting and constant defense are necessary. Ron, who had the benefits of a pureblood family, felt only anger at his helplessness at the suffering of those he loved.

And Draco, thinking over all of them, understood that he would always feel regret and shame for being a part of that systematic oppression. The best thing he could do now, for the good of the world they all shared, was to fight even harder to protect the happiness of the people he cared about.

Like Harry, who had never been anything to the world but a victimized hero, now made a martyr.

And Harry, ever his catalyst, was the thought that made him push up from the ground and finally stand, trying to formulate a plan of action.

But the level of silence surrounding him didn’t seem to be specific to the Room—it seemed to be, Draco worried and hoped, fallen on the whole castle.

Checking he had his wand, Draco cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself before slipping out of the Room. He entered into a silent corridor, ears straining trying to hear if anything was happening anywhere else in the castle, but he heard no sounds of battle. Even so, he didn’t dare call out to see if anyone was around, for fear they could be more foe than friend, especially to him.

And then, before he took so much as a step in either direction, a terrifyingly cold voice permeated the atmosphere, ringing in Draco’s ears and seeming to steep from the walls around him.

“Harry Potter is dead.”

Draco froze, the words chilling him to the bone, though he knew they weren’t true. Even so, horrifying possibilities flew to his mind as Voldemort continued speaking, making him doubt everything that had happened.

“He was killed as he ran away,” Voldemort went on, and Draco realized the outright lie with a rush of anger. “He was trying to save himself as you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.”

Draco knew what he must do with a flash of clarity, taking off at a run towards the Great Hall. He suspected that was where he would find the defenders of Hogwarts, tending to their wounded and dead with care, bravery and sorrow.

“The battle is won,” Voldemort continued, even as Draco tried his best to block him out. “You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come to the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

“Like _hell_ ,” Draco hissed, the fury he felt at Voldemort’s lies spurring him on even faster. He’d get to the Great Hall and set everything right, he’d tell them all that—that—

Draco skidded to a halt in a corridor on the fifth floor, heart still pounding but brain catching up to his actions.

Harry was not dead, but Voldemort and his entire army _thought_ he was. Harry obviously needed the lie to continue, to protect him until his chance to reveal himself. If he told everyone that Harry was alive and well, then the power to restart the battle was no longer in Harry’s hands. If he were to be discovered before he could escape or fight, it could prove fatal to both Harry and the people fighting with him.

There was only one thing Draco could do: he had to continue the lie himself. Fake his grief, comfort his friends and let them comfort him, answer questions and rally together for Voldemort’s return, undoubtedly with Nagini nearby.

He continued on at a slower pace, dreading the pain and grief that undoubtedly followed Voldemort’s announcement. How do you console a half-defeated group of people who had just lost their main symbol of hope and courage? How do you comfort those who had lost such an important part of their life?

If he really thought Harry was dead, how would _he_ want to be comforted?

But there was no real comfort for this. There were no words to assuage to loss and the gaping hole in their lives, to lessen what Harry’s death meant for them all. The only thing he could do was cry with them.

As he neared the Great Hall, the sounds of the people mourning ended up drawing him there faster. He ran to be with the others, somehow anxious to assess damage.

He burst through the open doors, and nothing changed upon his arrival for a solid three seconds.

In those few seconds his heart broke for the people in front of him, despair pulling at his strong conviction. While _he_ knew Harry was alive, these people did not, and the weight of Harry’s “death” was overwhelming enough for the grief to sink in without imagination.

People were thrown over bodies, shaking with sobs, perhaps even oblivious to the news about Harry. Others were holding each other, crying or silent, taking the only comfort they could in the arms of other survivors, and more yet were alone, mostly silent and staring off at a figure covered in cloth or a stone stained with blood.

But those who would truly mourn Harry, those who had loved him just as much as he did, saw him before he could see them.

“DRACO!” someone screamed, and most people’s faces whipped up to look at him.

He turned in the direction of the scream and was assaulted unexpectedly with an armful of Hermione Granger, of all people, immediately heaving with sobs.

“You—you—got out—how—Harry—do you know—“ she tried to say, but it was lost among tears as she fell away from him, supported by a silently crying Ron, who immediately wrapped her up in his arms.

Draco stood there, stunned for a moment as everything sunk in around him.

 _These people think Harry is dead_ , he thought, looking dazedly around at them all. _Really and truly dead_.

“It’s not true,” he found himself saying, even though he knew he shouldn’t, but it only served to amplify the grief.

Ron and Hermione broke off from the group, inconsolable except for each other. Ginny Weasley walked unsteadily back to her family, and Draco looked at the entire Hall as a whole. The band of Slytherins he had grouped together were mostly huddled in a corner, shaking and crying. Their lives would not be spared, and they knew it.

These people, terrified and devastated, were coping with the knowledge that they had lost the second Wizarding War. It was over, and they were dead, just like the symbol that had kept them going.

Despair enveloped him and he started shaking uncontrollably, assaulted with the very real possibility of defeat. His immediate instinct was to leave, to go and find Harry and find out what had happened after they had both woken up. As soon as the ridiculous idea occurred to him, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, the touch obviously supposed to be consoling.

He turned to find himself faced with Neville Longbottom, a large gash on his forehead and dried blood staining almost every part of exposed skin, soaked into the wooden fibers of his cardigan.

“Draco,” Neville began gently, pain coming sharply into his eyes, but broke off, obviously unsure how to continue.

Draco shook his head, unsure of what to say. The hand on his shoulder tightened and Draco’s eyes flicked down to the wand still drawn and clutched in Neville’s fist.

“I don’t know what happened,” Neville said, his voice steady and rough, “Between you and him, you know, and I don’t think I ever really will. I don’t think anyone ever really will. But I’ve seen Harry care about people for years, I’ve seen him obsess over people and love people so fiercely that they become a part of him.”

Draco looked back up into his face, partially astounded these words were coming from the boy he had bullied for seven-odd years.

Neville drew in a breath and looked around, his hand dropping from Draco’s shoulder. He blinked rapidly, before continuing on, his voice much more watery.

“He loved you just like all the rest of us,” Neville said as firmly as he could manage, fixing a stunned Draco with a determined look. “You are just as much a part of his memory as we are.”

He looked at Draco for one more moment before turning around and walking off, his back straight but his shoulders sagged, his wand slipping a fraction from his hand.

And Draco, at this point operating purely on instinct, went after him, catching him just before he made eye contact with Seamus and Dean.

“Neville, we need to leave the Great Hall,” Draco said, causing the heavy sadness to momentarily fade from Neville’s eyes, replaced by a sharp look of apprehension.

“Why?” he asked, looking around Draco briefly before returning his stare.

“Harry’s not dead,” Draco whispered urgently, searching Neville’s face for a sign that he believed him.

A pained look crumpled Neville’s face, twisting his frown into a grimace.

“Draco—“

“I know how it sounds, Longbottom,” Draco hissed, his eyes flashing as he felt an unexpected surge of something like _power_ somewhere in his chest. “Harry Potter is _not_ dead and if you follow me I will explain it to you.”

Neville opened his mouth to reply, but changed his mind. He looked around again, his eyes immediately falling on Ron and Hermione, still wrapped around each other, still grieving.

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because,” Draco answered, sweeping his arm out around the Great Hall. “Right now, _you_ are Harry Potter. _You_ are the one that has to keep this fight going, that has to keep these people fighting! Someone has to still believe there’s hope.”

Neville blinked, disbelief flickering faintly across his features.

“Come with me,” Draco said, adrenaline still spurring on his thought processes. “And pretend like you’re consoling me, just get me out of the Great Hall.”

Understanding at least enough to trust him, Neville nodded once and proceeded to envelop Draco in a hug, Draco dropping his forehead on Neville’s shoulder to hide his face.

He kept one arm around Draco’s waist and held him to his side as Draco stumbled forward, slowly walking them both out of the Hall.

“You’ve got to tell me what’s going on,” Neville said, dislodging himself from Draco when they were out of anyone’s sight.

“Can you trust me?” Draco asked, straightening up and looking Neville in the eye, trying to keep his face free of expression.

To his surprise, Neville barely seemed to think about his answer.

“Harry trusted you,” he replied, nodding. “So I do too.”

“Well, good,” Draco said, swallowing, caught a bit off-guard. “Then just listen. Voldemort, in an attempt to gain immortality, enacted ancient and very, very Dark magic that he had accidentally involved Harry in the night he tried to kill him, almost eighteen years ago.”

“Okay,” Neville said slowly, following Draco’s explanation.

“Voldemort did kill Harry,” Draco said, “but because of that magic, Harry was able to come back.”

Neville blinked, his brow furrowing. “Wait, are you just…just guessing here? Is this a sort of theory?”

Draco sighed, shaking his head. He raised a hand to his head, which had started to ache at the memory of his ‘death’.

“I’ve seen him,” Draco said shortly, still pressing fingers into his temple. “It’s a very…complicated story, but I know he’s alive.”

This time, Neville took his time to respond. His eyes searched Draco’s face and then he glanced behind them, at the double doors of the Great Hall thrown open, cries and the sounds of funerals pouring from the inside.

He reached up to wipe some dried blood from his face, the dark red-brown crust falling from his face and sticking to the fibers of his clothes.

“No one can know,” Draco continued. “Everyone has to think Harry is dead so he has the upper hand. But _you_ have to lead them. You have to convince them to keep fighting. You have to have hope.”

Neville’s eyes connected sharply with Draco’s again, his expression changing into one Draco had never seen on him before.

“I would have kept fighting even if Harry’s body was on the ground in front of me,” he swore, and Draco flinched at the visual. “We all would have.”

“Are you sure?” Draco asked.

Neville’s eyes looked down the hallway and out past the castle, breathing deeply before answering.

“Right now, there are _hundreds_ of people in our defense waiting on the outside of the castle, hidden, for my order to attack. They go on my say, or on my death. Whichever—“

“STUDENTS! Students, please, stay in the Hall!”

Both Neville and Draco turned at the panicked cry, McGonagall’s voice unmistakable.

“Oh, Merlin…” Neville breathed, and Draco followed his gaze to the stairs leading out of the castle. From where they were standing, indistinguishable black-cloaked figures stood in some semblance of order, obviously waiting on a command.

McGonagall rushed out of the Great Hall and into the open, her hair flying behind her, wand drawn and robes torn. Draco and Neville remained stationary for a few vital seconds, before hearing her anguished cry.

“NO!”

“It’s them,” Draco said, taking off at a run, Neville running immediately back to the Hall and him coming to a halt beside McGonagall, who barely spared him a glance.

About ten feet away from the worst of the fallen rubble stood Voldemort’s entire army of Death Eaters, spread out across the entire length of the battered bridge, all framing the obvious standout of their gathering.

Draco’s heart stopped and he fell against an unrecognizable mound of stone about his height, his eyes locked on the horrifying sight in front of him.

Hagrid, bound by ropes and hair caked with mud, leaves and blood, was silently sobbing as he bore the limp body of Harry Potter, glasses crooked and scar visible even from Draco’s vantage point as he lay in Hagrid’s arms, unmoving and unresponsive.

And in front of that stood Voldemort, arms floating away from his sides and wand not drawn, waves of triumph seeping from him and horrible snake settled triumphantly around his shoulders.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, his throat constricting as every thought and assurance he had managed to keep of Harry’s survival flying from his mind, replaced only by paralyzing fear and devastation.

“HARRY!” Hermione’s scream sounded behind him and he turned to realize that everyone in the Great Hall had begun filtering out, and cries of grief joined Hermione as people realized what had happened, realized Voldemort’s message was not a lie.

The cries of sorrow soon turned to shouts of fury and rebellion, and Draco yelled with them, his vision clouded with hate and heartbreak as he, too, screamed and screamed at the hoard of killers spread out in front of him.

“SILENCE!” Voldemort finally cried, and silence did fall like a curse on his entire, captive audience.

Reason returned to Draco at once, head clearing from thoughts of Harry’s death and he allowed himself to breathe, trusting that Harry was alive. Trusting that this would work, and trusting that Voldemort would never actually win.

“Yes,” Voldemort hissed, and it echoed around the crowd like it had come from directly behind them. “Harry Potter is _dead_. I have killed him, as he was sneaking away, trying to save himself—“

Before even Draco could react, Neville broke free from the group and charged towards Voldemort, wand drawn and yelling his fury.

Yells of caution followed the outbreak, but before anything could happen, Voldemort had drawn his wand and with a bang flung Neville to the ground, his body skidding across the uneven stones and coming to rest a few inches in front of Voldemort’s feet. His wand flew out of his hand and into Voldemort’s free one, Disarming him completely.

There was absolute silence for a few, horrible seconds as Voldemort crept up to Neville, who had turned himself over on his back, the gash on his forehead now bleeding freely down his face. Nagini slithered down Voldemort’s body and next to Neville as Voldemort bent slightly to stare into his face, and Draco watched with awe as Neville stared back.

“And who is this?” Voldemort asked, his soft, cold voice barely above a whisper but still able to be heard everywhere around.

Bellatrix recognized her moment and leapt forward, barking a hysterical laugh at Neville before turning to face Voldemort, chest heaving as usual as she shook her wild curls out of her face.

“It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows _so much_ trouble!” She tilted her head to pout at Neville, her dark eyes going big and round. “The son of the Aurors, _remember_?”

Draco looked down, never used to Bellatrix’s horrifying lack of remorse. He was one of the few people who knew of the tragedy of Neville’s parents, often having heard the gory details recounted gleefully ever since fifth year, whenever Bellatrix would get drunk with other Death Eaters and his grinning father, his silent mother.

“I do remember,” Voldemort said thoughtfully, his look changing from amused to appraising as Neville got unsteadily to his feet. “But one thing I do not understand—you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?”

Neville’s head jerked up to meet Voldemort’s gaze. Draco could not see Neville’s expression, but everyone standing on the steps of the castle saw Neville’s back straighten and shoulders go back, his stance widening to one of defiance.

“So what if I am?” he asked loudly.

“You show spirit and bravery, and you come from noble stock.” Voldemort said, stepping closer. Neville leaned away from him. “Lord Voldemort rewards those traits. We _all_ value those traits. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind.”

“I’ll join you,” Neville snarled, “when HELL FREEZES OVER! DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY!”

There was an answering cheer from the people surrounding Draco, all of his peers and teachers and adults shouting it, breaking Voldemort’s Silencing Charm.

“DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY!” he yelled too, raising his wand in the air with the others, his heart and soul seeming to fuse to the other survivors, to the people who loved this school and loved their world. “DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY!”

“Very well,” Voldemort said quietly, watching, unchanged, as the Neville ended the rally cry. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, then we revert back to the original plan. On your head be it.”

Voldemort raised his wand and Draco’s heart clenched with horror, but it was not the Cruciatus or the Killing Curse Voldemort cast. Instead, there was a shattering of glass and a misshapen brown object whizzed from the top of the castle and finally came to a stop as Voldemort caught it; holding it for the crowd around him to see, he showed the Sorting Hat to everyone watching.

Draco’s heart was in his throat as he watched Voldemort’s attention turn back to Neville, whose position hadn’t changed throughout the entire exchange.

“There will be no Sorting at Hogwarts School,” said Voldemort. “There will be no houses. The emblem, shield and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?”

At the same moment that Voldemort directed his wand at Neville, almost all of the onlookers on the staircase raised their wands as well, and Draco and a few others even moved forward. Mere seconds after the disturbance, the Death Eaters all drew and aimed their wands, forcing both groups into a standoff.

 _But it’s not even a standoff_ , Draco thought, looking around. They were completely outnumbered by the Death Eaters. Any attempt to fight, to charge forward or start a battle would be suicide. It was with a cold dread that he and the crowd around him realized that they couldn’t come to Neville’s aid.

Voldemort cast a silent spell that made Neville’s body go rigid and still, before charming the Hat to slip onto Neville’s head.

“Neville here is going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me,” Voldemort said, with an air of presentation, as if showcasing an exhibit. His red, demonic eyes flashed and he flicked his wand, setting the Sorting Hat on fire.

Fury erupted from the crowd as Neville screamed, his friends and peers and supporters screaming too, and Draco’s eyes found Harry, who _still wasn’t moving—_

A great rumble sounded then as all hell broke loose for the second time—

Neville moved then too, casting off the burning hat and as soon as his hand closed around the brim, the flames ceased and he drew from the bottom of the hat a shining, rubied—

“The Sword!” Draco shouted, and was met with answering cries from Ron and Hermione, all of them shocked and entranced as Neville swung the blade and sliced off the head of the last Horcrux—Voldemort’s precious Nagini, its head thudding to the floor as Voldemort screamed.

Hundreds of people were pouring in from the castle boundaries, yelling and screaming, and this must be the rest of the army Neville had told him about, there were people Draco had never seen before but he knew they were families of students, whose children had fought and died and screamed for their freedom—

People all around him were charging, the Death Eaters scattered as Grawp came around the side of the castle, booming for Hagrid, who Draco knew was still carrying Harry—

Draco gasped at the sight of Hagrid, spinning around with empty arms, yelling for Harry.

 “WHERE’S HARRY?” Draco screamed, running through the mass of people around him, shooting curses at black hoods as he fought his way to Hagrid, who was still looking around at him in confusion and horror, trying to locate Harry. “HAGRID, WHERE IS HARRY!”

Hagrid spun around to stare at him in shock. “ _Malfoy_ —“

“I’m with Harry,” Draco said desperately, looking around him to check they weren’t in immediate danger. “We’re together, I’m with him, I rescued him—“

“I didn’ believe it,” Hagrid said hoarsely, staring at Draco in awe.

“Well, I’m here, but where’s Harry? _Is Harry alive?_ ” Draco demanded, stepping closer to Hagrid.

“I don’—He killed him, he was dead, your mum said so—“

“But _where is he_?!”

“He jus’ disappeared! I felt him—he rolled off and disappeared!”

Draco spun around, eyes roving the battle scene.

“It’s the Cloak,” he yelled back to Hagrid, before sprinting off, wand at the ready.

Before anything else could happen, he was accosted suddenly by Travers, who stepped in front of him gleefully, sending Draco skidding to a halt.

Travers had gashes and cuts all over his face, as well as sickening spatters of blood on his robes that Draco knew couldn’t be his. He growled at Draco and raised his wand as Draco raised his.

“It was _you!”_ he hissed, stepping forward as Draco backed up. “That day, in Gringotts, that was _you_ and Potter!”

“You’re right,” Draco sneered, “it _was_ me. Thanks for your help, by the way—it really helped our cover.”

“You _son of a bitch!_ ” Travers spat, flinging a curse at Draco, which he easily blocked. “You _traitor_!”

Draco could see Travers unhinging, his fury unraveling him in the face of the opposition, his eyes wild and hand slinging curses sloppily.

“Damn right I am,” Draco said, goading him further.

“Your stupid bitch of a mother can’t see it,” Travers snarled, “but we can. We all did. _Crucio!”_

Draco dodged it, the fury in his stomach wiping away from the remorse he would have felt.

“Don’t you _dare_ talk about my mother! _AVADA KEDAVRA!”_ Draco yelled, the fatal jet of green light streaming unapologetically from his wand and hitting Travers in the stomach, his face the picture of shock as he fell backwards, another one of his terrorizers finally dead.

Draco leapt over the body and set off, body thrumming with adrenaline as he resumed his fight and his search for Harry. He sprinted around the last of the courtyard battle, the remaining Death Eaters being slain by the onslaught of Neville’s surprise army.

The battle he found himself in as he pushed his way into the castle was the most intense and terrifying thing he had ever seen.

The _centaurs_ had joined in, stampeding the crowds and clumps of Death Eaters, shooting arrows with deadly accuracy into the crowd, and then Draco saw the house-elves swarm in, bearing knives and even pots and pans, swinging and stabbing at the legs and ankles of the Death Eaters many of them had been abused by.

He saw many of his classmates dart past him, all of them screaming updates to each other. Seamus Finnegan, clutching Dean’s hand and dragging them both through the battle, paused only for a second to yell—

“MALFOY! LOVEGOOD NEEDS HELP!”

Luna! Draco spun around, trying to locate the wavy hair as light as his, finding her locked in a duel with Macnair, her big blue eyes wide with fear as she stumbled backwards.

“MACNAIR!” Draco yelled, trying to distract him as he charged forward, shooting a Shield Charm in between him and Luna.

“Draco!” Luna exclaimed, with surprise and gratitude.

“MALFOY!” he thundered. “ _Avada Kedavra!”_

Draco dodged the jet of light with ease and dove to Luna’s side, shooting hexes through his weakening shield.

“Thank you so much!” Luna yelled over the roar of the battle, hitting Macnair in his side with a very nasty hex as he tried to attack Draco, both of them reveling in the sight of the Death Eater crumpling to the floor.

“Are you okay?” Draco asked, scanning her quickly, looking for signs of injury.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she waved him off, smiling tightly quickly. “Go on—look for him.”

Blaise came skidding in from the side, getting close to Luna and helping with her next opponent.

“Go on, I’ve got her!”

Draco nodded, already running off again, through bodies slamming and lights flashing, people screaming and dying and bleeding, it threatened to be too much as Draco found himself in the middle, overwhelmed by hundreds of people packed into one room.

“DRACO!” A woman’s scream sounded from behind him, and he turned to see his parents sprinting towards him, dirty and disheveled, his mother’s face full of tears. She ran into his arms and he held her, dumbfounded as his father came to stand behind him, hurriedly pushing him forward.

“Draco, let us go _now_ ,” his father murmured, fear evident in his voice the way it was whenever Voldemort would confront him.

“What?” he asked, shaking his head immediately. _Had they forgotten?_

“We need to leave, get out of this war!” his mother urged him, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

“No,” Draco denied stoutly, stepping away from both of them. His mother let out a sob as she reached for him, and his father exhaled angrily.

“Draco—we want you home,” his father said, eyes flashing.

Draco looked beyond his parents, at the battle raging around him, not knowing how they could ask him to leave when his friends could die—when _Harry_ could die.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, looking at his shaking mother. “I can’t! I have to fight for Harry—for all of them!”

Before either of them could say anything else, he ran off again, ignoring their shouts from behind.

He saw Voldemort in the middle of the room, dueling McGonagall, Slughorn and Kingsley Shaklebolt with intensity, holding them at bay even as they all did their absolute worst. Should he assist them? Where was he needed? Where was—

Screams sounded to Voldemort’s left as Bellatrix shot to kill Ginny, the deadly stream of light missing her by centimeters. Hermione lunged to grab Ginny out of the way and Luna rushed up to her side, firing curse after curse at Bellatrix.

But none of them could equal the shock and rage of Molly Weasley, who Draco saw, as he almost fell into Hermione, climb slowly onto the raised platform where her only daughter had been standing moments before, the murderous glint in her eye morphing her usually sweet face into a warrior—into a mother wanting vengeance.

She straightened up and stared at Bellatrix with feverish hate, the Death Eater merely grinning back.

“NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU _BITCH_!” she screamed, but Bellatrix only laughed at the sight of her challenger.

Mrs. Weasley shot a jet of bright orange light straight at Bellatrix, which flew under her arm.

The grin dropped from Bellatrix’s face as she stared back at Mrs. Weasley, who threw back her mane of red hair.

“That was a nasty one, mummy,” she pouted, before shooting a Killing Curse back, which Mrs. Weasley dodged.

Both women launched into the duel, and Mrs. Weasley screamed for students to get back as they rushed to her side.

“SHE IS MINE!” Mrs. Weasley screeched, and slowly everyone realized the battles of the war had narrowed down to two.

Hundreds of eyes were locked onto Molly battling Bellatrix to the death and Voldemort still holding off three of Hogwart’s best fighters.

“What will happen to your children when I’ve killed you?” Bellatrix taunted, hair flying, dancing furiously around Molly’s curses. “When Mummy’s gone the same way as Freddie?”

“You—will—never—touch—our—children—again!” screamed Mrs. Weasley.

And then hundreds of people saw Bellatrix’s fatal mistake: she shook her wild curls out of her face and laughed, hysterical and arrogant, missing entirely the deadly curse that sailed past her defenses and hit her square above the heart.

Silence fell as Bellatrix froze, a millisecond of a shocked expression crossing her face before she toppled backwards, finally _finally_ dead, and the crowd cheered.

“HOLY SHIT, MUM!” Ginny screamed, clutching Luna, tears streaming down her face.

Voldemort screamed, silencing the cheers as his fury erupted, an unrecognizable spell sending McGongall, Slughorn and Shacklebolt flying through the air as he spun around to confront Molly.

Ginny screamed again and Draco feared the worst—

“PORTEGO!” came an _achingly_ familiar voice, roaring loud above the others, and everyone screamed and yelled in astonishment and triumph as Harry Potter fucking _appeared_ in the middle of the room.

“HARRY!” Hermione screamed, right behind Draco, which spurred him on, but he found himself trapped by Hermione’s grasp.

He turned, an outraged question on his lips, but she shook her head, her eyes fixed on Harry.

The crowd, scared into silence as Voldemort and Harry started moving towards each other, watched desperately as they raised their wands.

Draco’s heart was pounding in his chest, the fear and anxiety he felt for Harry threatening to choke him. He struggled out of Hermione’s grasp and started forward, drawing both Harry and Voldemort’s attention.

“Draco, stay back,” Harry warned, his authorative voice suddenly inflicted with a touch of fear. His vibrant eyes pleaded with Draco until he stepped back, and Voldemort hissed in satisfaction.

“Draco,” he drawled, eyes still on Harry. “Draco, _Draco_. Didn’t you just— _swoon_ —when he recused you from his home?”

Harry didn’t even dignify Voldemort’s taunting with a response, but his eyes flashed dangerously, something Draco knew too well. His heart beat so fast he thought it would burst, his hands beginning to shake.

“Be careful not to confuse obsession with romance, _Harry_ ,” Voldemort continued, his voice growing colder with each word. “Do you really think you _love_ him?”

“Because you’d know so much about that,” Harry said, his own voice hard, and gasps at the outright defiance littered the crowd.

“You, _Harry Potter_ , are obsessed with heroism,” Voldemort spat out. “Always wanting credit, always _shining,_ and _golden_ —isn’t that right, Draco?”

Draco swallowed, staring stonily back at Voldemort, saying nothing.

“But for all your _heroism_ , for all that _credit,_ that _worship_ ,” Voldemort hissed softly, “you always have a _shield_. A protector. Who are you using as a shield today, Harry Potter?”

“Nobody,” Harry replied casually.

“Surely,” Voldemort intoned, sweeping his free hand out to where Draco was standing. “Draco would like to be your shield? If he truly loved you, why wouldn’t he help you?”

“Stay back, everyone,” Harry replied, his eyes flickering quickly to Draco. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed and he let out a hiss that was purely serpentine, chilling Draco’s blood and raising the hair on his arms.

“There are no more Horcruxes,” Harry continued, observing the reaction in Voldemort. "It’s just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good.”

“One of us? You think it will be you? The boy who has survived by accident, and because _Dumbledore_ was pulling the strings?” Voldemort taunted.

“What about the graveyard? Was that an _accident_? When I stood and faced you, when I _beat_ you! Accident, when my mother died to save me?”

“ _Accidents!_ ” screamed Voldemort. “There was no _skill_ , it was all luck! All chance! It will certainly be no _accident_ when I slay _everyone_ who fought me! Everyone—“

“Everyone I died to protect,” Harry interrupted. Voldemort froze. “Don’t you remember how I survived that night, eighteen years ago? How my mother died to protect me, how she cast a spell on me, how you couldn’t touch me?”

“You didn’t die!”

“But I meant to!” Harry said triumphantly, “and that’s what did it. Haven’t you noticed that none of these spells you’re putting on everyone aren’t holding? You can’t touch them!”

“I can and I will!”

“That’s not the only mistake you made,” Harry continued, goading Voldemort further. “That’s not the only thing I have over you.”

“Over _me_?”

“Yes, over you!”

“Let me guess,” Voldemort cackled, “this weapon, this power you say you have, is it _love_? Dumbledore’s weapon, the one that ultimately led to his _death_?”

“Yes,” Harry simply.

“And who is it that made you believe in this fantasy? Dumbledore? Your _pathetic_ friends?” Voldemort hissed, his red eyes glinting. “Or was it _Draco_?”

“It was everyone,” Harry answered calmly, though his vision was now locked onto Voldemort’s wand. “And they’ve all showed me why you can never win.”

“I defeated Dumbledore’s _love_ ,” Voldemort shot back, “It made him _weak_! It made him lose the most powerful weapon he’d ever had!”

“You mean the Elder Wand?” Harry clarified, a bit breathless, his eyes widening a bit. “You don’t have that either.”

Everyone in the room could feel it now, could feel the moment rising. Voldemort was tensed, ready to strike, and Draco was terrified.

“I killed Dumbledore!” Voldemort screeched, and Harry visibly flinched, though his composure remained the same.

“Snape took his life,” Harry corrected. “But not even _he_ defeated Dumbledore.”

“He killed—“

“Dumbledore had planned his death! Snape was just following orders— _Dumbledore’s_ orders!”

“I ordered Draco Malfoy, and then Snape—“

“Snape was never yours!” Harry yelled, chest rising and falling at a rapid pace.

Something clicked in Draco’s mind then, as his mind involuntarily replayed the night of Dumbledore’s death, and what exactly had happened.

 _He had Disarmed him_ …

The possession of the wand had changed even before Snape cast the Killing Curse. It had changed when Draco had Disarmed Dumbledore in the Tower…

His mind blanked and Voldemort’s reply was lost on him as he stepped backwards, reaching his hand back and feeling Hermione’s arm.

“Draco,” she whispered breathlessly, pulling him towards her and Ron.

“I Disarmed Dumbledore,” he breathed back, “that night. I—The Elder Wand is _mine_.”

Her eyes widened in shock and the hand on his arm tightened.

“But Harry Disarmed you— _didn’t he_?” she demanded, but Draco, with a sickening feeling in his stomach, looked wordlessly back to Harry and Voldemort.

“The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy,” Harry said, amid gasps from the crowd, all of them waiting to see Voldemort’s retaliation.

Voldemort froze for a moment, but soon relaxed, laughing coolly as he did so.

“But this is no matter,” he said, “We now duel on skill alone. And I’m afraid…I quite outmatch you in that respect. After I have killed you, and _rest assured, I will kill you_ , I can attend to Draco Malfoy. You will not be able to protect him.”

And this was the truth, wasn’t it? Draco felt like falling, as he realized the truth. Harry couldn’t possibly defend himself, and _he_ had possession over the wand in Voldemort’s hand.

“But you’re too late,” Harry said, a shake in voice. “I Disarmed him when we got here, just so I could do this.”

Hermione’s grip on his arm tightened to the point of pain and her other hand flew up to her mouth, recognizing Harry’s lie before Draco could comprehend what was happening.

“No,” Draco said aloud, as Ron whispered “ _Fuck_ ” behind him, horror dawning on all of them as they realized what Harry was doing.

“I am the master of the Elder Wand,” Harry lied, loudly and confidently, even as he knew this could only lead to death. He had no defense left, only his phoenix wand and _one_ _shot_ to overpower Voldemort. His last move was to protect Draco.

His eyes connected with Neville on the other side of the room, the person Harry was undoubtedly trusting to finish the job after Voldemort killed him—this couldn’t be, Harry didn’t know what he was doing—

“I would never put Draco in that danger,” Harry said softly, “it’s just you and me now.”

And they all knew what was about to happen before it did—the orange sun hit the broken windows of the Great Wall as Draco ran, tearing his arm from Hermione. Voldemort reared back, Harry opening his mouth to take his shot—and then he swiveled, pointing his wand at Draco instead.

 _He was going to Disarm Draco_.

“ _EXPELLIARMUS!_ ”

“ _AVADA KEDAVRA!_ ”

“ _PORTEGO_!” Draco screamed, pointing his wand furiously between Harry and Voldemort a second before it flew from his hand—

Bright light exploded into the room and a scream sounded—Draco hit something and fell, knocked sideways, rolling onto the floor, his breath stolen from him as he waited for _something_ —

“HARRY!” he yelled, and his cry was answered by Hermione, and Ron, and Ginny—

And the light cleared.

No one was standing.

Draco forgot about Voldemort, forgot about everyone watching, and he pushed himself up, holding his breath and looking for a sign of life—

The room exploded again, but this time into voices—one half deafening cheering as they saw Voldemort’s body, lying broken and spread-eagled on the floor, and the other half screaming as they saw Harry the same time Draco did, in the same position, blown off of the platform by Draco’s Shield Charm.

“HARRY!” he screamed again, and pushed and fought his way to Harry’s side, collapsing next to him, right in front of Hermione and Ron.

And Harry sucked in a breath, his brilliant green eyes opening with astonishment, focusing on Draco.

Everyone dissolved into shouts and celebration as Draco breathed again, terror vanishing and replaced with a ungodly sense of exhaustion.

“Is he—“ Harry began, his eyes wide and mouth open, scared to even complete the sentence.

“Dead,” Hermione assured him, wiping away her tears and grasping his hand.

Draco wanted to sob with relief.

“Draco, you _bastard,_ ” Harry exhaled, sitting up, reaching for him, and Draco launched himself forward, trembling uncontrollably as he felt Harry’s arms go around him.

“HE’S DEAD!”

“HARRY POTTER KILLED YOU-KNOW-WHO!”

“IT’S OVER!”

“HE DID IT! BY GOD, HE DID IT!”

“ _THEY_ DID IT!”

Cries were yelled and chanted and screamed over the roar of supporters, all pulling Harry and Draco up by their limbs, embracing them, raising them up above the others, suffocating them in celebration.

“I want to see him!” Harry yelled, and the crowds parted as he repeated his demand. They led him and Draco slowly up to the clearing that surrounded Voldemort’s body, both of them stopping stock still as they saw it.

Tom Riddle lay, broken and still, on the dusty and rubble-covered floor of the Great Hall, his face even whiter than it had been in life, blank and unmoving.

Harry sank to his knees, pressing his fingers into the side of his head. He breathed deeply, and Draco put a hand on his shoulder, only able to comprehend that he would love him completely, love him always.

It was the end of an era, and the new one began as the sun rose fully over what remained of Hogwarts, sparkling in the broken glass and casting light over the fighters, over the mourners, over the families and friends huddling together, all of them silently vowing for a new society.

 

The next hours passed in a blur, as Draco and Harry attended to wounded, visited families and celebrated with peers and friends and neither had any idea what they were doing, only that their last sleep was before even Gringotts.

Where they were, what was happening, it was _worlds_ away from Amsterdam, from Gringotts, from even the Room where he thought he’d die.

Where he _did_ die.

He found Blaise eventually, leaning against the back wall with three other Slytherins Draco didn’t recognize.

“Hey,” he offered, coming to rest next to him. “Are you alright?”

Blaise looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “I’m probably going to get divorced,” he said, without any tone of suggestion or desperation, just as a blatant fact.

Draco let out a short laugh, realizing fully what kind of fresh hell he and his friends would be in. “I think you’ll have to, yeah.”

“Oh well,” Blaise sighed, his head tilting back to stare in front of him again. “Never really liked her.”

“There’ll be room for you here,” Draco said seriously. “You fought in the battle, didn’t you?”

“Think that’ll matter to them?” Blaise asked lightly. “Think they’ll see us as anything other than Slytherins? Anything other than Death Eaters?”

“Why did you fight?” Draco asked, raising his eyebrows. “Why are you here?”

“Because it was right,” Blaise answered immediately. “Because he was wrong. Because everyone matters.”

“Then they’ll see _that_ ,” Draco assured him, pushing himself off the wall. “They’ll see the same things in you that Harry saw in me. This new society—and it _will be_ a new society—it can’t afford to live on stereotypes anymore. _Everyone_ gets this new start. _Everything_ is going to change.”

Blaise looked at him again, his expression infuriatingly unreadable. “I hope so.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Draco promised, smiling at him before walking off, trying to find Harry in the sea of people.

He found him with Luna, Ginny, Ron and Hermione, and they all grinned at him as he approached, all of them dizzy with emotion and exhaustion.

Harry was between Luna and Ginny, but he stood up when he saw Draco approach. His expression still had an air of astonishment to it, like he still hadn’t comprehended what had happened. And honestly, Draco didn’t think any of them did.

“We need to be alone,” Harry announced, looking straight at Draco. “But I don’t know how to get away…”

“Use your Cloak,” Luna piped up, smiling helpfully up at him. “I’ll distract them!”

Harry moved towards Draco and took his hand as Luna jumped up and pointed to some spot above the crowd, shouting: “Look everyone, a Blubbering Humdinger!”

Harry laughed and pulled the Cloak from his pocket, throwing it over both him and Draco.

 

They found peace beside the Great Lake, both of them lying down on the soft and green grass, holding hands still and trying not to fall asleep.

There was a beautiful May breeze that blew over the both of them, stirring the waters of the sparkling lake. It was truly a new day, truly a new life.

 _A life_ , Draco thought, _I never thought I could have._

“I thought I had lost you,” Draco admitted finally, allowing the truth to enter his mind for the first time. “I thought you were dead. I didn’t see you, and then I saw you on the floor, and I thought you had died.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said sincerely, turning on his side. “I’m…I’m so sorry. It was the only way I could think of.”

“Yeah,” Draco offered, unsure of what to say. He turned his head towards Harry, who looked at him back, his eyes soft and apologetic and so full of _love_ , Draco never wanted to look away.

“Are you going to explain yourself further?” he asked, allowing a smile to pull his lips up as he continued to stare.

Harry smiled too, and it was gentle and slow and special, and he exhaled into the morning air.

“Later,” he vowed. “There will be time for _everything_ later.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEE ITS ALL OKAY GOD HAVE FAITH IN ME
> 
> But wow it's over  
> THIS FIC has cost me hours of sleep and distracted me heavily from Chemistry and Geometry so I have no complaints this was wonderful!  
> THANK THANK THANK YOU for everything all of you have said, the comments and kudos mean so much :)  
> I'll post the epilogue in about an hour!  
> I hope you've enjoyed reading this even more than I enjoyed writing it...happy ficcing!!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short epilogue :)

“ _Brilliant_ job, Potter!” Eckelson exclaimed excitedly, absent-mindedly trying and failing to wipe ash off from below his eye.

“Thought you’d kicked it for sure,” Seamus added seriously, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “And I thought: Death by dragon fire—is there any other way to go for flaming poofs like us?”

Harry snorted. “I think you’re more deserving of the dragon fire than me, mate.”

Eckelson laughed. “Got you there, Finnegan.”

Seamus shrugged.

“Actually,” Harry said, grinning and checking his watch, “speaking of, I best be off.”

Seamus raised his eyebrows. “Harry, he’ll _actually_ hex your balls off.”

Harry smirked. “He absolutely will not.”

“You’re a braver man than I am, Potter,” Eckleson said, wiping his hands once more off on his robes before nodding at them both and leaving.

“It’s not very difficult to be more sexually adventurous than Eckelson,” Seamus acknowledged quietly, nodding at the balding and rather sweaty middle-aged man walking away from them, “but I wouldn’t push my luck from last time.”

“He’s only getting scarier because he knows he’s going to give in,” Harry said wisely, holding up a hand to stop Seamus’s reply. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

With that, Harry shook the soot off of his sleeve as he turned and walked alone down the pristine hallway towards the office he was _technically_ banned from.

His heart was still racing from adrenaline and victory, and the ash falling from his hair and his clothes was only serving to excite him further.

He slowed as that occurred to him, frowning. _That…probably wasn’t right._

Rounding the corner, he halted with a grin at the wooden door with the impressive plaque.

_D. A. Malfoy_ , it read, and Harry sighed in relief.

Oh, but it had been _ages_.

He pushed the door open without knocking, making the blond jump and drop a stack of papers with a shriek.

“Sorry,” Harry said sheepishly, side-stepping into the room.

Draco rolled his eyes when he saw who his visitor was. “What do you want, Potter?” he sighed, placing the papers back on his desk. “I thought I told you that you weren’t allowed in here.”

Harry’s eyes flickered to the small movement of Draco drawing his wand from his sleeve, the tip of the wood poking out subtly but noticeably from the fabric. He shrugged.

“You say that every time,” he said dismissively.

Draco eyed him sideways. “I’m not going to shag you, Potter.”

Harry grinned. “You say _that_ every time, too, _Malfoy_.”

Draco looked at him for a moment before sighing again. “Tea?”

“Love some,” Harry replied, and accepted the cup he saw Draco had already made for him with a quick kiss.

“You’re unharmed this time?” Draco asked, settling in his chair.

“Being an Auror means I’m in danger a lot,” Harry told him, for the hundredth time. “But yeah, today we were just taking some dragons away from another secret arena.”

Draco frowned. “Those owners can be vicious.”

“Yeah, but this one was just an idiot,” Harry snorted, taking a sip. “Seriously, when you put up posters advertising illegal dragon fighting it makes it very easy to arrest you.”

“So if this was so routine, why does it entail victory sex? In my office?” Draco asked, raising his eyebrows.

Harry grinned at him again. “I missed you.”

Draco dropped his head and returned to his work, hiding a smile and blush. “Harry, we live together. You saw me this morning.”

Harry shrugged, still smiling. “Still.”

A knock at the door, however, promised to halt any proceedings of victory sex. Harry leaned back in his chair as Draco rose from his.

“Come in,” he called, and predictably, Hermione stepped quickly into the office.

“I see you’re both decent,” she observed dryly, raising one eyebrow.

_Unfortunately,_ Harry thought wryly.

“Hence the ‘come in’,” Draco replied.

“You’re still coming over for dinner tonight, aren't you? Ginny and Luna just canceled, something urgent, but I hope to see you around seven?” she asked briskly, her body and tone never leaving the strict and intimidating professional manner she adopted from the moment she stepped into the Ministry until the moment she left it.

“Ginny and Luna? Are you sure Ginny can’t just come?” Draco asked worriedly, but Harry laughed.

“Pansy’ll be fine. She doesn’t need Ginny there all the time,” he said.

“Well, she is the only Gryffindor Pansy thinks anything of,” Hermione sighed, prompting Draco to smile.

“Don’t be dramatic, Hermione, it’s not you. You know as well as I do that everything out of Pansy’s mouth is an outright lie.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Now who’s being dramatic? It’s beside the point, anyway—you two will be there?”

“Yeah, we’ll be there,” Harry answered, flashing her an assuring smile.

She nodded, smiling back. “Good. See you tonight! Oh, and Harry—can I speak to you outside for a minute?”

The easy smile Harry had obtained listening to her flickered and he felt pinpricks of anxiety in his stomach.

“Yeah,” he replied nonchalantly, standing up and following her out of the room. He could feel Draco’s eyes on him, but he pretended he didn’t notice them drilling holes into the back of his head.

As soon as she closed the door behind him, Hermione whirled on Harry with an excitement in her eyes that almost startled Harry.

“Are you still going to do it, then?” she whispered, and Harry’s eyes widened in alarm as he yanked her away from the door.

“Hermione, he could _hear_ you!”

“So you are?” she pressed, squeezing his arm.

“Yeah— _Merlin_ , Hermione, that _hurts_ —yeah, I’m gonna do it.” He replied, extracting his arm from her claw and rubbing it.

She didn’t look even remotely apologetic as she squealed, clapping her hands together. “Show me! Show me, show me, _show me_!”

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes after he cast one last look at the door. Shoving his hand into his back pocket, he felt the now-familiar thrill of terror and excitement as he found the small velvet box.

He brought it out to show her and she snatched it from him immediately.

“ _Hermione!_ ”

“Oh, Harry, it’s _gorgeous_ ,” she gasped, slowly and carefully opening the lid to reveal the pretty band inside.

“I mean, it’s silver,” Harry shrugged, reddening.

“It’s—Harry, it’s embossed and engraved—who helped you with this?”

Harry flushed even more. “Um, his mother.”

Hermione laughed. “She could open a business!”

“Probably,” Harry agreed, taking the ring back from her and hastily shoving it back out of sight.

“Oh, _Harry!_ ” she squealed again, flying at him in a rare show of affection at work.

“Well god, mate, did you propose to _her_?” Ron’s voice floated towards them down the hallway.

“ _Shh_!” Harry silenced him desperately, pointing towards Draco’s office. “He could hear you!”

“Sorry,” Ron apologized, holding his arm out for Hermione as she dislodged herself from Harry’s torso. “Come on, love, we’ve got to go. See you tonight?” he asked Harry, winking at him before walking away with Hermione.

Harry exhaled and turned back to the door. The confidence and buzz of adrenaline he had gained from the dragons had not carried over to what he was planning to do that night, much to his disappointment.

But of course, he had never done anything like this before.

He had defeated Voldemort, saved the Wizarding World, finished his exams and gotten a job and he couldn’t remember ever feeling this nervous.

But it was nothing, right?

Proposing to Draco shouldn’t be anything… _different,_ it’s not like anything would change. It’s just a more… _official_ way of saying that he wants to be with Draco…until he dies…

And it wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about spending the rest of their lives together—they’ve talked about it in the way that they both know there won’t ever be anyone else, in the joking conversations about where they’ll live when they’re old, and then when they’re _really_ old, in the way that their decisions have always been a joint effort.

They’ve always been together—a unit, complementing forces—from the moment Draco rescued Harry from Malfoy Manor.

This shouldn’t be anything new.

And yet, Harry was terrified. He had asked Ron if he had felt anything like this when he had proposed to Hermione, and Ron had laughed.

“Mate, I almost pissed myself whenever she looked at me that entire day I had that ring in my pocket,” he had replied, smiling fondly at the memory. “It didn’t help that we were barely nineteen years old, I had no idea how she even _felt_ about marriage—I was insanely lucky.”

That had not helped Harry.

Even though he was admittedly better prepared than Ron—they were twenty-three and twenty-four, not nineteen, with steady jobs and a six year relationship—Harry still felt like Draco could be potentially blindsided.

The idea wasn’t exactly illogical, or even particularly random—it had occurred to Harry after something went wrong on a case a couple months ago and Harry had been rushed to St. Mungos. Draco wasn’t allowed admission until he was completely stable because he wasn’t Harry’s spouse or family, and Harry could see how much the realization he couldn’t necessarily always be there for Harry had hurt him.

Draco had never really hinted at anything, just relayed the story with frustration and apology later on when Harry had woken up and was declared fit for visitation.

It wasn’t like earlier visitation—or even tax benefits—was the driving force behind the idea. The incident had prompted a thought that Harry suddenly couldn’t get out of his mind—after six years of living with Draco Malfoy, it finally occurred to Harry to maybe marry the git.

He turned back to face Draco’s office, his stomach churning and the box in his pocket suddenly feeling red-hot against the thin fabric of his trousers.

Opening the door, he saw Draco spin around so fast Harry thought he might fall over.

“Alright there?” he asked, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“Are you ready to go?” Draco asked, his smile flickering a bit.

Harry blinked. “Dinner’s not for hours,” he replied, and Draco shook his head.

“We’re making a short stop first,” Draco informed him, closing a folder on his desk and slipping it into his briefcase.

“If we’re going to your mother’s again, she _can’t_ make us late—“

Draco smiled, shaking his head. “Not my mother’s.”

Harry looked at him curiously. “Where?”

 

“Amsterdam,” Harry observed blankly, landing as they did in an incredibly familiar alleyway. He looked at Draco, completely confused. “Um. Did you…forget something here?”

Draco laughed, taking Harry’s hand and stepping up to the wall. “You’ll see.”

They were pulled through and were deposited in an achingly familiar garden around the Cornelisson Manor—a sight Harry had not seen for six years.

“What are we doing here?” Harry asked, slightly in awe, having forgotten how pretty the whole place was.

Draco didn’t answer, but pulled him through the garden and up the door, his grip on Harry’s hand tightening.

Harry, meanwhile, was panicking.

_Oh, fuck_ , he thought, _did I forget an anniversary?_

But no—it was September. Nothing happened to them in September…

_Is it Draco’s birthday_? He thought wildly, and then remembered again that it was September.

_Is it_ my _birthday_?

_WHAT PART OF SEPTEMBER IS SO HARD FOR YOU TO GRASP?_ Harry shouted inwardly at himself, his heart rate speeding up as Draco led him through the memorized hallways of the house.

Just as Harry was concluding that this could all be a veritable dream, he found himself being led, of all places, into the kitchen on the second floor.

“You’ve made me sentimental, Potter,” Draco said softly, prompting a smile from Harry.

Draco turned around to face him, looking a bit apprehensive.

Harry smiled at him again, bemused.

Draco took a deep breath and his gaze intensified, and Harry realized what was happening a split second before it happened.

As Harry’s mind halted and Draco sank to one knee, the only thing Harry could think to say was, “No!”

Draco froze, already on the ground, and Harry cringed horribly.

His mind sarcastically applauded him.

“I mean—not no,” Harry started over, but Draco just stared up at him, vaguely horrified. “Just—“

Harry reached out to bring Draco back to his standing position, drawing closer to him.

He met Draco’s bewildered and mortified gaze with his own amazed one—and burst out laughing.

Draco’s arms came around him automatically as Harry unexpectedly fell into him, laughing hysterically.

“Harry—“ Draco tried, but Harry shook his head.

“Let me—oh my God, this is…”

Harry took a few shuddering breaths to stabilize himself, and wordlessly reached into his pocket, pulling out his own ring box.

Draco gasped at the sight of it, his mouth falling open.

“Fuck,” he choked out, and started to laugh too.

“We’re usually so in sync!” Harry moaned, still smiling, resting his head on the taller man’s shoulder to hide his blush.

“Technically, this was pretty synchronized,” Draco responded thoughtfully. “Same day and everything. You were planning to do it tonight? At the dinner party?”

Harry nodded. “And almost everyone knew, too…”

“Oh, see, I didn’t tell anyone.”

Harry looked up, amused. “I’m assuming not your mother either?”

“No…you told her?” Draco asked, sounding surprised.

“I asked her first,” Harry admitted, blushing again. “I wasn’t sure…if I was supposed to…since you’re all really traditional…”

Draco laughed. “Pureblood tradition prevents us from marrying in the first place, but what did she say?”

“She just looked at me for a good thirty seconds, it was the most scared I’d ever been,” Harry recalled, shuddering. “I knew she liked me and everything, but dear God, your mother is the most intimidating woman I’ve ever seen. Anyway, she finally nodded once and said that I couldn’t propose with ‘whatever ring _I_ was going pick out—“

“She was probably right,” Draco interjected.

“—hush, I’m telling my very romantic story. So after insulting me she grabbed my arm and hauled me off to her personal jeweler and we spent four hours there. I still don’t know how. I think there should just be a standard engagement ring for every person,” Harry concluded, rolling his eyes and running his fingers over the box in his hand. “Still, I think she—we—did very well.”

“Did you now?” Draco asked, and Harry was delighted to hear him sound a bit nervous.

He lifted his head and grinned. “Wanna see it?”

Draco scoffed. “You send my heart a-fluttering, Potter. ‘ _Wanna see it?’”_

Harry rolled his eyes but still smiled, feeling a familiar warmth spread throughout his entire body. This is how it always was—and always would be—with Draco Malfoy. “Let me do it properly, then.”

_End_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to you all!!

**Author's Note:**

> So a few things:  
> 1\. I'm always looking for more people to review and tell me what I need to work on as far as this story goes, so keep that in mind as I continue to post.  
> 2\. I've got this whole thing planned out, and I've wanted to do this for a while.  
> 3\. As you can see, Draco and Harry don't exactly stay enemies for unbearably long chapters in this one. Harry's pretty quick to forgive after Draco saves his life, so you can expect relatively quick development on that front.  
> 4\. I HOPE YOU LIKED IT!! Please tell me in the comments if you did :)


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